






THE GRANDISSIMES 


i 



THE GRANDISSIMES 


wr 

GEORGE W CABI^ 


Charles Scribner’s Sons 
New York 1916 


^rl(3 


Copyright, 1880, by 
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS 

Copyright, 1908, by 
GEORGE W. CABLE 



CONTENTS 


Masked Batteries 


CHAPTER I. 


PACE 

I 


CHAPTER II. 
The Fate of the Immigrant 


10 


CHAPTER III. 


“ And who is my Neighbor ? ” l8 

CHAPTER IV. 

Family Trees . , . . 21 


CHAPTER V, 

A Maiden who will not Marry 3I 

CHAPTER VI. 

Lost Opportunities 37 


CHAPTER VII. 

Was it Honore Grandissime ? 42 

CHAPTER VIII. 

Signed — Honore Grandissime 5 ^ 

CHAPTER IX. 

Illustrating the Tractive Power of Basil 54 


VI 


CONTENTS, 


CHAPTER X. 

** Oo dad is, ’Sieur Frowenfel’ ?” 62 

CHAPTER XI. 

Sudden Flashes of Light ^7 

CHAPTER XII. 

The Philosophe. 7 ^ 

CHAPTER XIII. 

A Call from the Rent-Spectre 7 ^ 

CHAPTER XIV. 

Before Sunset 

CHAPTER XV. 

Rolled in the Dust 97 

CHAPTER XVI. 

Starlight in the rue Chartres II4 

CHAPTER XVII. 

That Night IlS 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

New Light upon Dark Places 130 

CHAPTER XIX. 

Art and Commerce 141 

CHAPTER XX. 

A very Natural Mistake 150 

CHAPTER XXL 

Doctor Keene Recovers his Bullet 161 

CHAPTER XXII. 

Wars within the Breast 165 


CONTENTS. vii 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

Frowcnfeld Keeps his Appointment 170 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

Frowenfeld Makes an Argument 175 

CHAPTER XXV. 

Aurora as a Historian 186 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

A Ride and a Rescue 191 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

The Fete de Grandp^re 202 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

The Story of Bras-Coupe 219 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

The Story of Bras-Coupe, Continued 238 

CHAPTER XXX. 

Paralysis 253 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

Another Wound in a New Place 260 

CHAPTER XXXII. 

Interrupted Preliminaries 264 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

Unkindest Cut of All 267 

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

Clotilde as a Surgeon 270 

CHAPTER XXXV. 

• Fo’ wad you Cryne?” 3 ?^ 


viii CONTENTS, 

CHAPTER XXXVI. page 

Aurora’s Last Picayune 280 

CHAPTER XXXVII. 

Honore Makes some Confessions 286 

CHAPTER XXXVIIL 

Tests of Friendship 295 

CHAPTER XXXIX. 

Louisiana States her Wants 306 

CHAPTER XL. 

Frowenfeld Finds Sylvestre 311 

CHAPTER XLI. 

To Come to the Point 319 

CHAPTER XLII. 

An Inheritance of Wrong 328 

CHAPTER XLIII. 

The Eagle Visits the Doves in their Nest 335 

CHAPTER XLIV. 

Bad for Charlie Keene 347 

CHAPTER XLV, 

More Reparation 350 

CHAPTER XLVI. 

The Pique-en-terre Loses One of her Crew 354 

CHAPTER XLVII. 

The News 364 

CHAPTER XLVIII. 

An Indignant Family and a Smashed Shop ^67 



CONTENTS, 

ix 

Over the New Store. . . , 

CHAPTER XLIX 

PAGE 

A Proposal of Marriage. 

CHAPTER H 

381 

Business Changes . » . . . . 

CHAPTER LI. 

oc 

Love Lies a-Bleeding, . . 

CHAPTER LIL 


CHAPTER LIIl, 

Frowenfeld at the Grandissime Mansion 


«* Cauldron Bubble . . . 

CHAPTER LIV. 


Caus’ht 

CHAPTER LV. 


Blood for a Blow 

CHAPTER LVI. 


Vrknrilnn Gnreri 

CHAPTER LVIL 



CHAPTER LVIII. 



CHAPTER LIK 


Where some Creole Money Goes. 435 

CHAPTER LK 

«All Right 439 


CHAPTER LXI. 


“-NoX” 


444 




THE GRANDISSIMES, 


CHAPTER I. 

MASKED BATTERIES. 

It was in the Theatre St. Philippe (they had laid a 
temporary floor over the parquette seats) in the city we 
now call New Orleans, in the month of September, and 
in the year 1803. Under the twinkle of numberless can- 
dles, and in a perfumed air thrilled with the wailing ecs- 
tasy of violins, the little Creole capital’s proudest and 
best were offering up the first cool night of the languidly 
departing summer to the divine Terpsichore. For sum- 
mer there, bear in mind, is a loitering gossip, that only 
begins to talk of leaving when September rises to go. 
It was like hustling her out, it is true, to give a select 
bal masque at such a very early — such an amusingly 
early date ; but it was fitting that something should be 
done for the sick and the destitute ; and why not this ? 
Everybody knows the Lord loveth a cheerful giver. 

And so, to repeat, it was in the Theatre St. Philippe 
(the oldest, the first one), and, as may have been noticed, 
in the year in which the First Consul of France gave 


2 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


away Louisiana. Some might call it ^^sold.” Old 
Agricola Fusilier in the rumbling pomp of his natural 
voice — for he had an hour ago forgotten that he was in 
mask and domino — called it ^‘gave away.’^ Not that 
he believed it had been done ; for, look you, how could 
it be ? The pretended treaty contained, for instance, 
no provision relative to the great family of Brahmin 
Mandarin Fusilier de Grandissime. It was evidently 
spurious. 

Being bumped against, he moved a step or two aside, 
and was going on to denounce further the detestable 
rumor, when a masker — one of four who had just fin- 
ished the contra-dance and were moving away in the 
column of promenaders — brought him smartly around 
with the salutation ; 

Comment toy if, Citoyen Agricola ! 

“ H-you young kitten ! ” said the old man in a growl- 
ing voice, and with the teased, half laugh of aged vanity 
as he bent a baffled scrutiny at the back-turned face of 
an ideal Indian Queen. It was not merely the tiitoie- 
meni that struck him as saucy, but the further familiarity 
of using the slave dialect. His French was unprovincial 
“ H-the cool rascal!’’ he added laughingly, and only 
half to himself; “ get into the garb of your true sex, sir, 
h-and I will guess who you are I ” 

But the Queen, in the same feigned voice as before, 
retorted : 

''Ah! mo piti fils, to pas connais to zancestres? 
Don’t you know your ancestors, my little son ! ” 

“ H-the g-hods preserve us ! ” said Agricola, with a 
pompous laugh muffled under his mask, the queen of 
the Tchoupitoulas I proudly acknowledge, and niy great- 
grandfather, Epaminondas Fusilier, lieutenant of dra- 


MASKED BATTERIES. 


3 


goons under Bienville; but,” — he laid his hand upon 
his heart, and bowed to the other two figures, whose 
smaller stature betrayed the gentler sex — “pardon me, 
ladies, neither Monks nor Filles a la Cassette grow on 
our family tree.” 

The four maskers at once turned their glance upon 
the old man in the domino ; but if any retort was in^ 
tended it gave way as the violins burst into an agony of 
laughter. The floor was immediately filled with waltzers 
and the four figures disappeared. 

“ I wonder,” murmured Agricola to himself, “ if that 
Dragoon can possibly be Honore Grandissime.” 

Wherever those four maskers went there were cries of 
delight : “ Ho, ho, ho ! see there ! here ! there ! a group 
of first colonists ! One of Iberville’s Dragoons ! don’t 
you remember great-great-grandfather Fusilier’s portrait 
— the gilded casque and heron plumes ? And that one 
behind in the fawn-skin leggings and shirt of bird’s 
skins is an Indian Queen. As sure as sure can be, they 
are intended for Epaminondas and his wife, Lufki- 
Humma ! ” All, of course, in Louisiana French. 

“ But why, then, does he not walk with her ? ” 

“ Why, because. Simplicity, both of them are men, 
while the little Monk on his arm' is a lady, as you can 
see, and so is the masque that has the arm of the Indian 
Queen ; look at their little hands.” 

In another part of the room the four were greeted 
with, “ Ha, ha, ha! w'ell, that is magnificent 1 But see 
that Huguenotte Girl on the Indian Queen’s arm! 
Isn’t that fine ! Ha, ha ! she carries a little trunk. 
She is a Fille a la Cassette I ” 

Two partners in a cotillion were speaking in an under- 
tone, behind a fan. 


4 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


And you think you know who it is ? ” asked one. 

Know ? ” replied the other. Do I know I have a 
head on my shoulders ? If that Dragoon is not our cou- 
sin Honore Grandissime — well ” 

‘‘ Honore in mask? he is too sober-sided to do such 
a thing.” 

I tell you it is he ! Listen. Yesterday I heard Doc- 
tor Charlie Keene begging him to go, and telling him 
there were two ladies, strangers, newly arrived in the city, 
who would be there, and whom he wished him to meet. 
Depend upon it the Dragoon is Honore, Lufki-Humma 
is Charlie Keene, and the Monk and the Huguenotte 
are those two ladies.” 

But all this is an outside view ; let us draw nearer and see 
what chance may discover to us behind those four masks. 

An hour has passed by. The dance goes on ; hearts 
are beating, wit is flashing, eyes encounter eyes with 
the leveled lances of their beams, merriment and joy 
and sudden bright surprises thrill the breast, voices are 
throwing off disguise, and beauty’s coy ear is bending 
with a venturesome docility ; her^ love is baffled, there 
deceived, yonder takes prisoners and here surrenders. 
The very air seems to breathe, to sigh, to laugh, while 
the musicians, with disheveled locks, streaming brows 
and furious bows, strike, draw, drive, scatter from the 
anguished violins a never-ending rout of screaming har- 
monies. But the Monk and the Huguenotte are not on 
the floor. They are sitting where they have been left 
by their two companions, in one of the boxes of the 
theater, looking out upon the unwearied whirl and flash 
of gauze and light and color. 

“ Oh, Mrte, cherie ! ” murmured the little lady in the 
Monk’s disguise to hei quieter companion, and speaking 


MASKED BATTERIES, 5 

In the soft dialect of old Louisiana, “ now you get a 
good idea of heaven ! ” 

The Fille a la Cassette replied with a sudden turn of 
her masked face and a murmur of surprise and protest 
against this impiety. A low, merry laugh came out of 
the Monk’s cowl, and the Huguenotte let her form sink 
a little in her chair with a gentle sigh. 

“ Ah, for shame, tired ! ” softly laughed the other ; 
then suddenly, with her eyes fixed across the room, she 
seized her companion’s hand and pressed it tightly. 
** Do you not see it ? ” she whispered eagerly, just by 
the door — the casque with the heron feathers. Ah, 
Clotilde, I cannot believe he is one of those Grandis- 
simes ! ” 

** Well,” replied the Huguenotte, ‘‘ Doctor Keene 
says he is not.” 

Doctor Charlie Keene, speaking from under the dis- 
guise of the Indian Queen, had indeed so said ; but the 
Recording Angel, whom we understand to be particular 
about those things, had immediately made a memoran- 
dum of it to the debit of Doctor Keene’s account. 

If I had believed that it was he,” continued the whis- 
perer, ** I would have turned about and left him in the 
midst of the contra-dance ! ” 

Behind them sat unmasked a well-aged pair, bre~ 
douilley' as they used to say of the wall-flowers, with 
that look of blissful repose which marks the married and 
established Creole. The lady in monk’s attire turned 
about in her chair and leaned back to laugh with these. 
The passing maskers looked that way, with a certain in- 
stinct that there was beauty under those two costumes. 
As they did so, they saw the Fille h la Cassette join in 
this over-shoulder conversation. A moment later, they 


6 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


saw the old gentleman protector and the Fille a la Cas- 
sette rising to the dance. And when presently the dis- 
tant passers took a final backward glance, that same 
Lieutenant of Dragoons had returned and he and the 
little Monk were once more upon the floor, waiting for 
the music. 

‘^But your late companion?” said the voice in the 
cowl. 

“ My Indian Queen ? ” asked the Creole Epaminon- 
das. 

Say, rather, your Medicine-Man,” archly replied the 
Monk. 

** In these times,” responded the Cavalier, a medi- 
cine-man cannot dance long without professional inter- 
ruption, even when he dances for a charitable object. 
He has been called to two relapsed patients.” The mu- 
sic struck up ; the speaker addressed himself to the 
dance ; but the lady did not respond. 

“ Do dragoons ever moralize ? ” she asked. 

*^They do more,” replied her partner; ** sometimes, 
when beauty’s enjoyment of the ball is drawing toward 
its twilight, they catch its pleasant melancholy, and con- 
fess ; will the good father sit in the confessional ? ” 

The pair turned slowly about and moved toward the 
box from which they had come, the lady remaining si- 
lent ; but just as they were entering she half withdrew 
her arm from his, and, confronting him with a rich spar- 
kle of the eyes within the immobile mask of the monk, 
said : 

** Why should the conscience of one poor little monk 
carry all the frivolity of this ball ? I have a right to 
dance, if I wish. I give you my word. Monsieur 
Dragoon, I dance only for the benefit of the sick and 


MASKED BATTERIES. 


7 


the destitute. It is you men — you dragoons and others 
who will not help them without a compensation in this 
sort of nonsense. Why should we shrive you when you 
ought to burn ? 

“ Then lead us to the altar,” said the Dragoon. 

“ Pardon, sir,” she retorted, her words entangled with 
a musical, open-hearted laugh, “ I am not going in that 
direction.” She cast her glance around the ball-room. 

As you say, it is the twilight of the ball ; I am look- 
ing for the evening star, — that is, my little Hugue- 
notte.” 

Then you are well mated.” 

“ How?” 

For you are Aurora.” 

The lady gave a displeased start 

^‘Sir!” 

Pardon,” said the Cavalier, *Hf by accident I have 
hit upon your real name ” 

She laughed again— a laugh which was as exultantly 
joyous as it was high-bred. 

Ah, my name ? Oh no, indeed !” (More work 
for the Recording Angel.) 

She turned to her protectress. 

‘‘ Madame, I know you think we should be going 
home.” 

The senior lady replied in amiable speech, but with 
sleepy eyes, and the Monk began to lift and unfold a 
wrapping. As the Cavalier drew it into his own posses- 
sion, and, agreeably to his gesture, the Monk and he 
sat down side by side, he said, in a low tone : 

“ One more laugh before we part.” 

“ A monk cannot laugh for nothing.” 

I will pay for it.” 


8 


THE GRANDISSIMES, 


** But with nothing to laugh at ? ” The thought oi 
laughing at nothing made her laugh a little on the spot. 

We will make something to laugh at,” said the cava- 
lier ; we will unmask to each other, and when we find 
each other first cousins, the laugh will come of itself.” 

“ Ah ! we will unmask ? — no ! I have no cousins. I 
am certain we are strangers.” 

“Then we will laugh to think that I paid for the dis- 
appointment.” 

Much more of this child-like badinage followed, and 
by and by they came around again to the same last 
statement. Another little laugh escaped from the cowl. 

“ You will pay ? Let us see ; how much will you give 
to the sick and destitute ? ” 

“To see who it is I am laughing with, I will give 
whatever you ask.” 

“ Two hundred and fifty dollars, cash, into the hands 
of the managers ! ” 

A bargain ! ” 

The Monk laughed, and her chaperon opened her 
eyes and smiled apologetically. The Cavalier laughed, 
too, and said : 

“ Good ! That was the laugh ; now the unmasking.” 
And you positively will give the money to the mana- 
gers not later than to-morrow evening > ” 

“ Not later. It shall be done without fail.” 

“ Well, wait till I put on my wrappings ; I must be 
ready to run.” 

This delightful nonsense was interrupted by the return 
of the Fille a la Cassette and her aged, but sprightly, 
escort, from a circuit of the floor. Madame again opened 
her eyes, and the four prepared to depart. The Dragoon 
helped the Monk to fortify herself against the outer air 


MASKED BATTERIES. 


9 


She was ready before the others. There was a pause, 
a low laugh, a whispered “ Now ! ” She looked upon 
an unmasked, noble countenance, lifted her own mask a 
little, and then a little more ; and then shut it quickly 
down again upon a face whose beauty was more than 
even those fascinating graces had promised which 
Honore Grandissime had fitly named the Morning ; but 
it was a face he had never seen before. 

‘‘Hush!’^ she said, “the enemies of religion are 
watching us ; the Huguenotte saw me. Adieu ” — and 
they were gone. 

M. Honore Grandissime turned on his heel and very 
soon left the ball. 

“ Now, sir,” thought he to himself, “ we’ll return to 
our senses.” 

Now I’ll put my feathers on again,” says the plucked 
bird. 


CHAPTER II. 


THE FATE OF THE IMMIGRANT. 

It ^3 l 5 just a fortnight after the ball, that one Joseph 
Frowenfeld opened his eyes upon Louisiana. He was 
an American by birth, rearing and sentiment, yet Ger- 
man enough through his parents, and the only son in a 
family consisting of father, mother, self, and two sisters, 
new-blown flowers of womanhood. It was an October 
dawn, when, long wearied of the ocean, and with bright 
anticipations of verdure, and fragrance, and tropical 
gorgeousness, this simple-hearted family awoke to find 
the bark that had borne them from their far northern 
home already entering upon the ascent of the Mississippi. 

We may easily imagine the grave group, as they came 
up one by one from below, that morning of first disap- 
pointment, and stood (with a whirligig of jubilant mos- 
quitoes spinning about each head) looking out across 
the waste, and seeing the sky and the marsh meet in the 
east, the north, and the west, and receiving with patient 
silence the father’s suggestion that the hills would, no 
doubt, rise into view after a while. 

My children, we may turn this disappointment into 
a lesson ; if the good people of this country could speak 
to us now, they might well ask us not to judge them or 
their land upon one or two hasty glances, or by the 
experiences of a few short days or weeks.” 


THE FATE OF THE IMMIGRANT. 11 

But no hills rose. However, by and by, they found 
Solace in the appearance of distant forest, and in the 
afternoon they entered a land — but such a land ! A 
land hung in mourning, darkened by gigantic cypresses, 
submerged ; a land of reptiles, silence, shadow, decay. 

The captain told father, when we went to engage 
passage, that New Orleans was on high land,” said the 
younger daughter, with a tremor in the voice, and ignor- 
ing the remonstrative touch of her sister. 

On high land ? ” said the captain, turning from the 
pilot; ^‘well, so it is — higher than the swamp, but not high- 
er than the river,” and he checked a broadening smile. 

But the Frowenfelds were not a family to complain. 
It was characteristic of them to recognize the bright as 
well as the solemn virtues, and to keep each other re- 
minded of the duty of cheerfulness. A smile, starting 
from the quiet elder sister, went around the group, 
directed against the abstracted and somewhat rueful 
countenance of Joseph, whereat he turned with a better 
face, and said that what the Creator had pronounced 
very good they could hardly feel free to condemn. The 
old father was still more stout of heart. 

“ These mosquitoes, children, are thought by some to 
keep the air pure,” he said. 

Better keep out of it after sunset,” put in the captain. 

After that day and night, the prospect grew less re- 
pellent. A gradually matured conviction that New 
Orleans would not be found standing on stilts in the 
quagmire, enabled the eye to become educated to a 
better appreciation of the solemn landscape. Nor was 
the landscape always solemn. There were long open- 
ings, now and then, to right and left, of emerald-green 
savannah, with the dazzling blue of the Gulf far beyond, 


12 


THE GRAMdISSIMES. 


waving a thousand white handed good-byes as the 
funereal swamps slowly shut out again the horizon. 
How sweet the soft breezes off the moist prairies ! How 
weird, how very near, the crimson and green and black 
and yellow sunsets ! How dream-like the land and the 
great, whispering river ! The profound stillness and 
breadth reminded the old German, so he said, of that 
early time when the evenings and mornings were the 
first days of the half-built world. The barking of a dog 
in Fort Plaquemines seemed to come before its turn in 
the panorama of creation — before the earth was ready 
for the dog’s master. 

But he was assured that to live in those swamps was 
not entirely impossible to man — “ if one may call a 
negro a man.” Runaway slaves were not so rare in 
them as one — a lost hunter, for example — might wish. 
His informant was a new passenger, taken aboard at the 
fort. He spoke English. 

“Yes, sir! Didn’ I had to run from Bras Coup6 in 
de haidge of de swamp be’ine de 'abitation of my cousin 
Honors, one time ? You can hask ’oo you like 1 ” (A 
Creole always provides against incredulity.) At this 
point he digressed a moment : “ You know my cousin, 
Honor6 Grandissime, w’at give two hund’ fifty dolla’ to 
de ’ospill laz mont’ ? An’ juz because my cousin Honore 
give it, somebody helse give de semm. Fo’ w’y don’t he 
give his nemm ? ” 

The reason (which this person did not know) was that 
the second donor was the first one over again, resolved 
that the little unknown Monk should not know whom 
she had baffled. 

“ Who was Bras Coup^ ? ” the good German asked, 
in French. 


THE FATE OF THE IMMIGRANT, 13 

The stranger sat upon the capstan, and, in the shadow 
of the cypress forest, where the vessel lay moored for 
a change of wind, told in a patois difficult, but not 
impossible, to understand, the story of a man who chose 
rather to be hunted like a wild beast among those awful 
labyrinths, than to be yoked and beaten like a tame one. 
Joseph, drawing near as the story was coming to a close, 
overheard the following English : 

Friend, if you dislike heated discussion, do not tell 
that to my son.” 

The nights were strangely beautiful. The immigrants 
almost consumed them on deck, the mother and 
daughters attending in silent delight while the father 
and son, facing south, rejoiced in learned recognition of 
stars and constellations hitherto known to them only on 
globes and charts. 

Yes, my dear son,” said the father, in a moment of 
ecstatic admiration, ‘‘ wherever man may go, around this 
globe — however uninviting his lateral surroundings may 
be, the heavens are ever over his head, and I am glad to 
find the stars your favorite objects of study.” 

So passed the time as the vessel, hour by hour, now 
slowly pushed by the wind against the turbid current, 
now warping along the fragrant precincts of orange or 
magnolia groves or fields of sugar-cane, or moored by 
night in the deep shade of mighty willow-jungles, 
patiently crept toward the end of their pilgrimage ; and 
in the length of time which would at present be consumed 
in making the whole journey from their Northern home 
to their Southern goal, accomplished the distance of 
ninety-eight miles, and found themselves before the 
little, hybrid city of ‘‘Nouvelle Orleans.” There was 
the cathedral, and standing beside it, like Sancho beside 


14 


THE GRANDISSIMES, 


Don Quixote, the squat hall of the Cabildo with the 
calabozo in the rear. There were the forts, the military 
bakery, the hospitals, the plaza, the Almonaster stores, 
and the busy rue Toulouse ; and, for the rest of the 
town, a pleasant confusion of green tree-tops, red and 
gray roofs, and glimpses of white or yellow wall, spread- 
ing back a few hundred yards behind the cathedral, and 
tapering into a single rank of gardened and belvedered 
villas, that studded either horn of the river’s crescent with 
a style of home than which there is probably nothing in 
the world more maternally home-like. 

“And now,” said the “captain,” bidding the immi- 
grants good-by, “ keep out of the sun and stay in after 
dark ; you’re not ' acclimated,’ as they call it, you know, 
and the city is full of the fever.” 

Such were the Frowenfelds. Out of such a mold and 
into such a place came the young Am^ricain, whom even 
Agricola Fusilier as we shall see, by and by thought 
worthy to be made an exception of, and honored with 
his recognition. 

The family rented a two-story brick house in the rue 
Bienville, No. 17, it seems. The third day after, at day- 
break, Joseph called his father to his bedside to say 
that he had had a chill, and was suffering such pains in 
his head and back that he would like to lie quiet until 
they passed off. The gentle father replied that it was 
undoubtedly best to do so and preserved an outward 
calm. He looked at his son's eyes ; their pupils were 
contracted to tiny beads. He felt his pulse and his 
brow ; there was no room for doubt ; it was the dreaded 
scourge — the fever. We say, sometimes, of hearts that 
they sink like lead ; it does not express the agony. 

On the second day while the unsated fever was run* 


THE FATE OF THE IMMIGRANT. 


15 


ning through every vein and artery, like soldiery through 
the streets of a burning city, and far down in the caverns 
of the body the poison was ransacking every palpitating 
corner, the poor immigrant fell into a moment’s sleep. 
But what of that ? The enemy that moment had 
mounte(' to the brain. And then there happened to 
Joseph a-*.; experience rare to the sufferer by this disease,, 
but not entirely unknown, — a delirium of mingled 
pleasures and distresses. He seemed to awake some- 
where between heaven and earth reclining in a gorgeous 
barge, which was draped in curtains of interwoven silver 
and silk, cushioned with rich stuffs of every beautiful 
dye, and perfumed ad nauseam with orange-leaf tea. 
The crew was a single old negress, whose head was 
wound ibout with a blue Madras handkerchief, and who 
stood At the prow, and by a singular rotary motion, 
rowed the barge with a tea-spoon. He could not get his 
head out of the hot sun ; and the barge went continually 
round and round with a heavy, throbbing motion, in the 
regular beat of which certain spirits of the air — one of 
whom appeared to be a beautiful girl and another a 
small, red-haired man, — confronted each other with the 
continual call and response : 

Keep the bedclothes on him and the room shut 
tight, keep the bedclothes on him and the room shut 
tight,” — “An’ don’ give ’im some watta, an’ don’ give 
’im some watta.” 

During what lapse of time — whether moments or days 
—this lasted, Joseph could not then know ; but at last 
these things faded away, and there came to him a positive 
knowledge that he was on a sick-bed, where unless 
something could be done for him he should be dead in 
an hour. Then a spoon touched his lips, and a taste 


i6 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


of brandy and water went all through him ; and when 
he fell into sweet slumber and awoke, and found the tea- 
spoon ready at his lips again, he had to lift a little the 
two hands lying before him on the coverlet to know that 
they were his — they were so wasted and yellow. He 
turned his eyes, and through the white gauze of the 
mosquito-bar saw, for an instant, a strange and beautiful 
young face ; but the lids fell over his eyes, and when he 
raised them again the blue-turbaned black nurse was 
tucking the covering about his feet. 

Sister ! ” 

No answer. 

Where is my mother ? ” 

The negress shook her head. 

He was too weak to speak again, but asked with his 
eyes so persistently, and so pleadingly, that by and by 
she gave him an audible answer. He tried hard to 
understand it, but could not, it being in these words : 

Li pa oiiU vini Pi — li pas capahe'^ 

Thrice a day for three days more, came a little man 
with a large head surrounded by short, red curls and 
with small freckles in a fine skin, and sat down by the 
bed with a word of good cheer and the air of a com- 
mander. At length they had something like an ex- 
tended conversation. 

“ So you concluded not to die, eh ? Yes, I’m the 
doctor — Doctor Keene. A young lady ? What young 
lady ? No, sir, there has been no young lady here. 
You’re mistaken. Vagary of your fever. There has 
been no one here but this black girl and me. No, my 
dear fellow, your father and mother can’t see you yet ; you 
don’t want them to catch the fever, do you ? Good-bye. 
Do as your nurse tells you, and next week you may 


THE FATE OF THE IMMIGRANT. 


17 


raise your head and shoulders a little ; but if you don’t 
mind her you’ll have a back-set, and the devil himself 
wouldn’t engage to cure you.” 

The patient had been sitting up a little at a time for 
several days, when at length the doctor came to pay a 
final call, “ as a matter of form : ” but, after a few 
pleasantries, he drew his chair up gravely, and, in a 

tender tone need we say it ? He had come to tell 

Joseph that his father, mother, sisters, all, were gone on 
a second — a longer — voyage, to shores where there 
could be no disappointments and no fevers, forever. 

And, Frowenfeld,” he said, at the end of their long 
and painful talk, if there is any blame attached to not 
letting you go with them, I think I can take part of it ; 
but if you ever want a friend, — one who is courteous to 
strangers and ill-mannered only to those he likes, — you 
can call for Charlie Keene. I’ll drop in to, see you, any- 
how, from time to time, till you get stronger. I have 
taken a heap of trouble to keep you alive, and if you 
should relapse now and give us the slip, it would be a 
deal of good physic wasted ; so keep in the house.” 

The polite neighbors who lifted their cocked hats to 
Joseph as he spent a slow convalescence just within his 
open door, were not bound to know how or when he 
might have suffered. There were no “ Howards ” or “ Y. 
M. C. A’s” in those days; no Peabody Reliefs.” 
Even had the neighbors chosen to take cognizance of 
those bereavements, they were not so unusual as to fix 
upon him any extraordinary interest as an object of 
sight ; and he was beginning most distressfully to realize 
that ** great solitude ” which the philosopher attributes 
to towns, when matters took a decided turn. 


CHAPTER III. 


‘'AND WHO IS MY NEIGHBOR?** 

We say matters took a turn ; or, better, that Frowen, 
feld’s interest in affairs received a new life. This had its 
beginning in Doctor Keene’s making himself specially 
entertaining in an old-family-history way, with a view 
to keeping his patient within-doors for a safe period; 
He had conceived a great liking for Frowenfeld, and 
often, of an afternoon, would drift in to challenge him 
to a game of chess — a game, by the way, for which 
neither of them cared a farthing. The immigrant had 
learned its moves to gratify his father, and the doctor — 
the truth is, the doctor had never quite learned them ; 
but he was one of those men who cannot easily con- 
sent to acknowledge a mere affection for one, least of 
all one of their own sex. It may safely be supposed, 
then, that the board often displayed an arrangement 
of pieces that would have bewildered Morphy him- 
self. 

“ By the by, Frowenfeld,” he said one evening, after 
the one preliminary move with which he invariably 
opened his game, “ you haven’t made the acquaintance 
of your pretty neighbors next door.” 

Frowenfeld knew of no specially pretty neighbors 
next door on either side — had noticed no ladies. 

“Well, I will take you in to see them sometime.’* 


IVHO IS MY NEIGHBOR?^' IQ 

The doctor laughed a little, rubbing his face and his 
thin, red curls with one hand, as he laughed. 

The convalescent wondered what there could be to 
laugh at. 

“ Who are they ? " he inquired. 

“ Their name is De Grapion — oh, De Grapion, says 
I ! their name is Nancanou. They are, without excep- 
tion, the finest women — -the brightest, the best, and the 
bravest — that I know in New Orleans.” The doctor re- 
sumed a cigar which lay against the edge of the chess- 
board, found it extinguished, and proceeded to relight 
it. Best blood of the Province ; good as the Grandis- 
simes. Blood is a great thing here, in certain odd ways,” 
he went on. “ Very curious sometimes.” He stooped 
to the floor, where his coat had fallen, and took his hand- 
kerchief from a breast-pocket. “ At a grand mask ball 
about two months ago, where I had a bewilderingly fine 
time with those ladies, the proudest old turkey in the 
theater was an old fellow whose Indian blood shows in 
his very behavior, and yet — ha, ha ! I saw that same old 
man, at a quadroon ball a few years ago, walk up to the 
handsomest, best dressed man in the house, a man with 
a skin whiter than his own, — a perfect gentleman as to 
looks and manners, — and without a word slap him in the 
face.” 

You laugh ? ” asked Frowenfeld. 

“Laugh? Why shouldn’t I? The fellow had no 
business there. Those balls are not given to quadroon 
maleSy my friend. He was lucky to get out alive, and 
that was about all he did.’’ 

“ They are right ! ” the doctor persisted, in response 
to Frowenfeld’s puzzled look. “The people here have 
got tc be particular. However, that is not what we 


20 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


were talking about. Quadroon balls are not to be men- 
tioned in connection. Those ladies ” He addressed 

himself to the resuscitation of his cigar. ‘‘ Singular people 
in this country,” he resumed ; but his cigar v/ould not 
revive. He was a poor story-teller. To Frowenfeld — 
as it would have been to any one, except a Creole or 
the most thoroughly Creoleized Am^ricain — his narra- 
tive, when it was done, was little more than a thick mist 
of strange names, places and events ; yet there shone a 
light of romance upon it that filled it with color and pop- 
ulated it with phantoms. Frowenfeld’s interest rose — ' 
was allured into this mist — and there was left befogged. 
As a physician, Doctor Keene thus accomplished his 
end, — the mental diversion of his late patient, — for in 
the midst of the mist Frowenfeld encountered and grap- 
pled a problem of human life in Creole type, the possible 
correlations of whose quantities we shall presently find 
him revolving in a studious and sympathetic mind, as 
the poet of to-day ponders the 


“ Flower in the crannied wall.” 


The quantities in that problem were the ancestral — the 
maternal — roots of those two rival and hostile families 
whose descendants — some brave, others fair — we find 
unwittingly thrown together at the ball, and with whom 
we are shortly to have the honor of an unmasked ac- 
quaintance. 


CHAPTER IV. 


, FAMILY TREES. 

In the year 1673, and in the royal hovel of a Tchoupi- 
toulas village not far removed from that ** Buffalo’s 
Grazing-ground,” now better known as New Orleans, 
was born Lufki Humma, otherwise Red Clay. The 
mother of Red Clay was a princess by birth as well as 
by marriage. For the father, with that devotion to his 
people’s interests, presumably common to rulers, had 
ten moons before ventured northward into the territory 
of the proud and exclusive Natchez nation, and had so 
prevailed with — so outsmoked — their “ Great Sun,” as 
to find himself, as he finally knocked the ashes from his 
successful calumet, possessor of a wife whose pedigree 
included a long line of royal mothers, — fathers being of 
little account in Natchez heraldry, extending back be- 
yond the Mexican origin of her nation, and disappear- 
ing only in the effulgence of her great original, the orb 
of day himself. As to Red Clay’s paternal ancestry, we 
must content ourselves with the fact that the father was 
not only the diplomate we have already found him, but 
a chief of considerable eminence ; that is to say, of seven 
feet stature. 

It scarce need be said than when Lufki-Humma was 
born, the mother arose at once from her couch of skins, 
herself bore the infant to the neighboring bayou and 


22 


THE GRANDISSIMES, 


bathed it — not for singularity, nor for independence, nor 
for vainglory, but only as one of the heart-curdling con* 
ventionalities which made up the experience of that most 
pitiful of holy things, an Indian mother. 

Outside the lodge door sat and continued to sit, as she 
passed out, her master or husband. His interest in the 
trivialities of the moment may be summed up in this, 
that he was as fully prepared as some men are in more 
civilized times and places to hold his queen to strict ac- 
count for the sex of her offspring. Girls for the Nat- 
chez, if they preferred them, but the chief of the Tchou- 
pitoulas wanted a son. She returned from the water, 
came near, sank upon her knees, laid the infant at his 
feet, and lo ! a daughter. 

Then she fell forward heavily upon her face. It may 
have been muscular exhaustion, it may have been the 
mere wind of her hasty- tempered matrimonial master’s 
stone hatchet as it whiffed by her skull ; an inquest now 
would be too great an irony ; but something blew out 
her “ vile candle.” 

Among the squaws who came to offer the accustomed 
funeral bowlings, and seize mementoes from the de- 
ceased lady’s scant leavings, was one who had in her 
own palmetto hut an empty cradle scarcely cold, and 
therefore a necessity at her breast, if not a place in her 
heart, for the unfortunate Lufki-Humma; and thus it 
was that this little waif came to be tossed, a droll hypo- 
thesis of flesh, blood, nerve and brain, into the hands of 
wild nature with carte hlanche as to the disposal of it. 
And now, since this was Agricola’s most boasted ances- 
tor — since it appears the darkness of her cheek had no 
effect to make him less white, or qualify his right to 
«mite the fairest and most distant descendant of an Afri- 


FAMILY TREES. 


23 


can on the face, and since this proud station and right 
could not have sprung from the squalid surroundings of 
her birth, let us for a moment contemplate these crude 
materials. 

As for the flesh, it was indeed only some of that “ one 
flesh ” of which we all are made ; but the blood — to go 
into finer distinctions — the blood, as distinguished from 
the milk of her Alibamon foster-mother, was the blood 
of the royal caste of the great Toltec mother-race, which 
before it yielded its Mexican splendors to the conquer- 
ing Aztec, throned the jeweled and gold-laden Inca in 
the South, and sent the sacred fire of its temples into 
the North by the hand of the Natchez. For it is a short 
way of expressing the truth concerning Red Clay’s tis- 
sues to say she had the blood of her mother and the 
nerve of her father, the nerve of the true North Ameri- 
can Indian, and had it in its finest strength. 

As to her infantine bones, they were such as needed 
not to fail of straightness in the limbs, compactness in 
the body, smallness in hands and feet, and exceeding 
symmetry and comeliness throughout. Possibly between 
the two sides of the occipital profile there may have been 
an Incaean tendency to inequality ; but if by any good 
fortune her impressible little cranium should escape the 
cradle-straps, the shapeliness that nature loves would 
soon appear. And this very fortune befell her. Her 
father’s detestation of an infant that had not consulted 
his wishes as to sex, prompted a verbal decree which, 
among other prohibitions, forbade her skull the distor- 
tions that ambitious and fashionable Indian mothers de- 
lighted to produce upon their offspring. 

And as to her brain : what can we say ? The casket 
in which Nature sealed that brain, and in which Nature’s 


24 


THB GRANDISSIMES. 


great step-sister Death, finally laid it away, has never 
fallen into the delighted fingers — and the remarkable 
fineness of its texture will never kindle admiration in 
the triumphant eyes — of those whose scientific hunger 
drives them to dig for crania Americana ; nor yet will 
all their learned excavatings ever draw forth one of those 
pale souvenirs of mortality with walls of shapelier con- 
tour or more delicate fineness, or an interior of more ad- 
mirable spaciousness, than the fair council-chamber un- 
der whose dome the mind of Lufki-Humma used, about 
two centuries ago, to sit in frequent conclave with high 
thoughts. 

have these facts,” it was Agricola Fusilier’s habit 
to say, by family tradition ; but you know, sir, h-tra- 
dition is much more authentic than history ! ” 

Listening Crane, the tribal medicine-man, one day 
stepped softly into the lodge of the giant chief, sat down 
opposite him on a mat of plaited rushes, accepted a 
lighted calumet, and, after the silence of a decent hour, 
broken at length by the warrior’s intimation that “the 
ear of Raging Buffalo listened for the voice of his broth- 
er,” said, in effect, that if that ear would turn toward the 
village play-ground, it would catch a murmur like the 
pleasing sound of bees among the blossoms of the ca- 
talpa, albeit the catalpa was now dropping her leaves, for 
it was the moon of turkeys. No, it was the repressed 
laughter of squaws, wallowing with their young ones 
about the village pole, wondering at the Natchez-Tchoupi- 
toulas child, whose eye was the eye of the panther, and 
whose words w'ere the words of an aged chief in council. 

There was more added ; we record only enough to 
indicate the direction of Listening Crane’s aim. The 
eye of Raging Buffalo was opened to see a vision : the 


FAMILY TREES. 


25 


daughter of the Natchez sitting in majesty, clothed in 
many-colored robes of shining feathers crossed and 
recrossed with girdles of serpent-skins and of wampum, 
her feet in quilled and painted moccasins, her head 
under a glory of plumes, the carpet of buffalo-robes 
about her throne covered with the trophies of conquest, 
and the atmosphere of her lodge blue with the smoke of 
embassadors’ calumets ; and this extravagant dream the 
capricious chief at once resolved should eventually 
become reality. “ Let her be taken to the village tem- 
ple,” he said to his prime-minister, and be fed by 
warriors on the flesh of wolves.” 

The Listening Crane was a patient man ; he was the 
man that waits ” of the old French proverb ; all things 
came to him. He had waited for an opportunity to 
change his brother’s mind, and it had come. Again, he 
waited for him to die ; and, like Methuselah and others, 
he died. He had heard of a race more powerful than 
the Natchez — a white race ; he waited for them ; and 
when the year 1682 saw a humble “ black gown ” drag- 
ging and splashing his way, with La Salle and Tonti, 
through the swamps of Louisiana, holding forth the 
crucifix and backed by French carbines and Mohican 
tomahawks, among the marvels of that wilderness was 
found this ; a child of nine sitting, and — with some 
unostentatious aid from her medicine-man — ruling ; 
queen of her tribe and high-priestess of their temple. 
Fortified by the acumen and self-collected ambition of 
Listening Crane, confirmed in her regal title by the 
white man’s Manitou through the medium of the ‘‘ black 
gown,” and inheriting her father’s fear-compelling frown, 
she ruled with majesty and wisdom, sometimes a decreer 
of bloody justice, sometimes an Amazonian counselor of 


26 


THE CRANDISSIMES. 


warriors, and at all times — year after year, until she had 
reached the perfect womanhood of twenty-six — a virgin 
queen. 

On the nth of March, 1699, two overbold young 
Frenchmen of M. D’Iberville’s little exploring party 
tossed guns on shoulder, and ventured away from theif 
canoes on the bank of the Mississippi into the wilderness. 
Two men they were whom an explorer would have been 
justified in hoarding up, rather than in letting out at such 
risks ; a pair to lean on, noble and strong. They hunted, 
killed nothing, were overtaken by rain, then by night, 
hunger, alarm, despair. 

And when they had lain down to die, and had only 
succeeded in falling asleep, the Diana of the Tchoupitou- 
las, ranging the magnolia groves with bow and quiver, 
came upon them in all the poetry of their hope-forsaken 
strength and beauty, and fell sick of love. We say not 
whether with Zephyt Grandissime Of Epaminondas Fusi- 
lier ; that, for the time being, was her secret. 

The two captives were made guests. Listening Crane 
rejoiced in them as representatives of the great gift-mak- 
ing race, and indulged himself in a dream of pipe-smok- 
ing, orations, treaties, presents and alliances, finding its 
climax in the marriage of his virgin queen to the king of 
France, and unvaryingly tending to the swiftly increas- 
aggrandizement of Listening Crane. They sat down 
to bear’s meat, sagamite and beans. The queen sat 
down with them, clothed in her entire wardrobe : vest 
of swan’s skin, with facings of purple and green from the 
neck of the mallard ; petticoat of plaited hair, with 
embroideries of quills ; leggings of fawn-skin ; garters 
of wampum ; black and green serpent-skin moccasins, 
that rested on pelts of tiger-cat and buffalo ; armlets of 


FAMILY TREES. 


2; 


gars’ scales, necklaces of bears’ claws and alligators’ teeth, 
plaited tresses, plumes of raven and flamingo, wing of 
the pink curlew, and odors of bay and sassafras. Young 
men danced before them, blowing upon reeds, hooting, 
yelling, rattling beans in gourds and touching hands and 
feet. One day was like another, and the nights were 
made brilliant with flambeau dances and processions. 

Some days later M. D’Iberville’s canoe fleet, return- 
ing down the river found and took from the shore the 
two men, whom they had given up for dead, and with 
them, by her own request, the abdicating queen, who 
left behind her a crowd of weeping and howling squaws 
and warriors. Three canoes that put off in their wake, 
at a word from her, turned back ; but one old man 
leaped into the water, swam after them a little way, and 
then unexpectedly sank. It was that cautious wader 
but inexperienced swimmer, the Listening Crane. 

When the expedition reached Biloxi, there were two 
suitors for the hand of Agricola’s great ancestress. 
Neither of them was Zephyr Grandissime. (Ah ! the 
strong heads of those Grandissimes.) 

They threw dice for her. Demosthenes De Grapion 
■ — he who, tradition says, first hoisted the flag of France 
over the little fort — seemed to think he ought to have a 
chance, and being accorded it, cast an astonishingly 
high number ; but Epaminondas cast a number higher 
by one (which Demosthenes never could quite under- 
stand), and got a wife who had loved him from first 
sight. 

Thus, while the pilgrim fathers of the Mississippi 
Delta with Gallic recklessness were taking wives and 
moot-wives from the ill specimens of three races, arose, 
with the church’s benediction, the royal house of the 


28 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


Fusiliers in Louisiana. But the true, main Grandissime 
stock, on which the Fusiliers did early, ever, and yet do, 
love to marry, has kept itself lily-white ever since France 
has loved lilies — as to marriage, that is ; as to less 
responsible entanglements, why, of course 

After a little, the disappointed Demosthenes, with due; 
ecclesiastical sanction, also took a most excellent wife, 
from the first cargo of House of Correction girls. Her 
biography, too, is as short as Methuselah’s, or shorter; 
she died. Zephyr Grandissime married, still later, a 
lady of rank, a widow without children, sent from France 
to Biloxi under a lettre de cachet. Demosthenes De 
Grapion, himself an only son, left but one son, who also 
left but one. Yet they were prone to early marriages. 

So also were the Grandissimes, or, as the name is 
signed in all the old notarial papers, the Brahmin Man- 
darin de Grandissimes. That was one thing that kept 
their many-stranded family line so free from knots and 
kinks. Once the leisurely Zephyr gave them a start, 
generation followed generation with a rapidity that kept 
the competing De Grapions incessantly exasperated, and 
new-made Grandissime fathers continually throwing 
themselves into the fond arms and upon the proud necks 
of congratulatory grandsires. Verily it seemed as though 
their family tree was a fig-tree ; you could not look for 
blossoms on it, but there, instead, was the fruit full ol 
seed. And with all their speed they were for the most 
part fine of stature, strong of limb and fair of face. The 
old nobility of their stock, including particularly the 
unnamed blood of her of the lettre de cachet ^ showed 
forth in a gracefulness of carriage, that almost identified 
a De Grandissime wherever you saw him, and in a 
transparency of flesh and classic beauty of feature, that 


/''AM/LV TREES. 


29 


made their daughters extra-marriageable in a land and 
day which was bearing a wide reproach for a male celi- 
bacy not of the pious sort. 

In a flock of Grandissimes might always be seen a 
Fusilier or two ; fierce-eyed, strong-beaked, dark, heavy- 
taloned birds, who, if they could not sing, were of rich 
plumage, and could talk and bite, and strike, and keep 
up a ruffled crest and a self-exalting bad humor. They 
early learned one favorite cry, with which they greeted 
all strangers, crying the louder the more the endeavor 
was made to appease them : Invaders ! Invaders ! ” 

There was a real pathos in the contrast offered to this 
family line by that other which sprang up as slenderly 
as a stalk of wild oats from the loins of Demosthenes De 
Grapion. A lone son following a lone son, and he 
another — it was sad to contemplate, in that colonial 
beginning of days, three generations of good, Gallic 
blood tripping jocundly along in attenuated Indian file. 
It made it no less pathetic to see that they were 
brilliant, gallant, much-loved, early epauletted fellows, 
who did not let twenty-one catch them without wives 
sealed with the authentic wedding kiss, nor allow twenty- 
two to find them without an heir. But they had a sad 
aptness for dying young. It was altogether supposable 
that they would have spread out broadly in the land ; 
but they were such inveterate duelists, such brave Indian- 
fighters, such adventurous swamp-rangers, and such 
lively free-livers, that, however numerously their half- 
kin may have been scattered about in an unacknowl^ 
edged way, the avowed name of De Grapion had become 
less and less frequent in lists where leading citizens 
subscribed their signatures, and was not to be seen in 
the list of managers of the late ball. 


30 


THE GRANDISSIMES, 


It is not at all certain that so hot a blood would not 
have boiled away entirely before the night of the ba\ 
masque, but for an event which led to the union of that 
blood with a stream equally clear and ruddy, but of a 
milder vintage. This event fell out some fifty-two years 
after that cast of the dice which made the princess Luf 
ki 'Humma the mother of all the Fusiliers and of none 
of the De Grapions. Clotilde, the Casket-Girl, the little 
maid who would not marry, was one of an heroic sort, 
worth — the De Grapions maintained — whole swampfuls 
of Indian queens. And yet the portrait of this great 
ancestress, which served as a pattern to one who, at the 
ball, personated the long-deceased heroine en masque, 
is hopelessly lost in some garret. Those Creoles have 
such a shocking way of filing their family relics and 
records in rat-holes. 

One fact alone remains to be stated : that the De 
Grapions, try to spurn it as they would, never could 
quite suppress a hard feeling in the face of the record, 
that from the two young men who, when lost in the 
horrors of Louisiana’s swamps, had been esteemed 
as good as dead, and particularly from him who married 
at his leisure, — from Zephyr de Grandissime, — sprang 
there so many as the sands of the Mississippi innumer^ 
able. 


CHAPTER V. 


A MAIDEN WHO WILL NOT MARRY. 

Midway between the times of Lufki-Humma and 
those of her proud descendant, Agricola Fusilier, fifty- 
two years lying on either side, were the days of Pierre 
Rigaut, the magnificent, the “Grand Marquis,'’ the 
Governor, De Vaudreuil. He was the Solomon of 
Louisiana. For splendor, however, not for wisdom. 
Those were the gala days of license, extravagance and 
pomp. He made paper money to be as the leaves of the 
forest for multitude ; it was nothing accounted of in the 
days of the Grand Marquis. For Louis Quinze was 
king. 

Clotilde, orphan of a murdered Huguenot, was one of 
sixty, the last royal allotment to Louisiana, of imported 
wives. The king’s agents had inveigled her away from 
France with fair stories: “ They will give you a quiet 
home with some lady of the colony. Have to marry ? 
— not unless it pleases you. The king himself pays your 
passage and gives you a casket of clothes. Think of 
that these times, fillette ; and passage free, withal, to — 
the garden of Eden, as you may call it — what more, say 
you, can a poor girl v/ant ? Without doubt, too, like a 
model colonist, you will accept a good husband and have 
a great many beautiful children, who will say with pride, 

’ Me, I am no House-of-Correction-girl stock ; my 


32 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


mother’ — or ‘ grandmother/ as the case may be — ‘ was ? 
file a la cassette / ’ ” 

The sixty were landed in New Orleans and given into 
the care of the Ursuline nuns ; and, before many days 
had elapsed, fifty7nine soldiers of the king were well 
wived and ready to settle upon their riparian land-grants. 
The residuum in the nuns’ hands was one stiff-necked 
little heretic, named, in part, Clotilde. They bore with 
her for sixty days, and then complained to the Grand 
Marquis. But the Grand Marquis, with all his pomp, 
was gracious and kind-hearted, and loved his ease almost 
as much as his marchioness loved money. He bade 
them try her another month. They did so, and then 
returned with her ; she would neither marry nor pray to 
Mary. 

Here is the way they talked in New Orleans in those 
days. If you care to understand why Louisiana has 
grown up so out of joint, note the tone of those who 
governed her in the middle of the last century : 

“ What, my child,” the Grand Marquis said, you a 
file a la cassette ? France, for shame ! Come here by 
my side. Will you take a little advice from an old 
soldier ? It is in one word — submit. Whatever is in- 
evitable, submit to it. If you want to live easy and 
sleep easy, do as other people do — submit. Consider 
submission in the present case ; how easy, how comfort- 
able, and how little it amounts to ! A little hearing of 
mass, a little telling of beads, a little crossing of one’s 
self — what is that ? One need not believe in them. 
Don’t shake your head. Take my example ; look at 
me ; all these things go in at this car and out at this. 
Do king or clergy trouble me ? Not at all. For how 
does the king in these matters of religion ? I shall not 


A MAIDEN WHO WILL NOT MARRY. 33 

even tell you, he is such a bad boy. Do you not know 
that all the noblesse, and all the savants, and especially 
all the archbishops and cardinals, — all, in a word, but 
such silly little chicks as yourself, — have found out that 
this religious business is a joke ? Actually a joke, every 
whit ; except, to be sure, this heresy phase ; that is a 
joke they cannot take. Now, I wish you well, pretty 
child ; so if you — eh ? — truly, my pet, I fear we shall 
have to call you unreasonable. Stop ; they can spare 
me here a moment ; I will take you to the Marquise : 
she is in the next room. * * * Behold,” said he, as he 
entered the presence of his marchioness, “ the little maid 
who will not marry ! ” 

The Marquise was as cold and hard-hearted as the 
Marquis was loose and kind ; but we need not recount 
the slow tortures of the fille a la cassette's second verbal 
temptation. The colony had to have soldiers, she was 
given to understand, and the soldiers must have wives. 
“ Why, I am a soldier’s wife, myself ! ” said the gorge- 
ously attired lady, laying her hand upon the governor- 
general’s epaulet. She explained, further, that he was 
rather soft-hearted, while she was a business woman ; 
also that the royal commissary’s rolls did not compre- 
hend such a thing as a spinster, and — incidentally — that 
living by principle was rather out of fashion in the Pro- 
vince just then. 

After she had offered much torment of this sort, a 
definite notion seemed to take her ; she turned her lord 
t>y a touch of the elbow, and exchanged two or three 
business-like whispers with him at a window overlook- 
ing the Levee. 

“Fillette,” she said, returning, you are going to live 
on the sea-coast. I am sending an aged lady there to 


34 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


gather the wax of the wild myrtle. Thiis good soldiei 
of mine buys it for our king at twelve livres the pound. 

Do you not know that women can make money ? The 
place is not safe ; but there are no safe places in 
Louisiana. There are no nuns to trouble you there ; 
only a few Indians and soldiers. You and Madame will 
live together, quite to yourselves, and can pray as you 
like.” 

** And not marry a soldier,” said the Grand Marquis. 

“ No,” said the lady, ** not if you can gather enough 
myrtle-berries to afford me a profit and you a living.” 

It was some thirty leagues or more eastward to the 
country of the Biloxis, a beautiful land of low, evergreen 
hills looking out across the pine-covered sand-keys of 
Mwssisippi Sound to the Gulf of Mexico. The northern 
shore of Biloxi Bay was rich in candleberry- myrtle. In 
Clotilde’s day, though Biloxi was no longer the capital of 
the Mississippi Valley, the fort which D’Iberville had 
built in 1699, first timber of which is said to have 

been lifted by Zephyr Grandissime at one end and 
Epaminondas Fusilier at the other, was still there, 
making brave against the possible advent of corsairs, 
with a few old culverines and one wooden mortar. 

And did the orphan, in despite of Indians and soldiers 
and wilderness settle down here and make a moderate 
fortune ? Alas, she never gathered a berry ! When she 
— with the aged lady, her appointed companion in exile, 
the young commandant of the fort, in whose pinnace 
they had come, and two or three French sailors and | 
Canadians — stepped out upon the white sand of Biloxi j 
beach, she was bound with invisible fetters hand and foot, i 
by that Olympian rogue of a boy, who likes no better 
prey than a little maiden who thinks she will never marry. 


A MAIDEN WHO WILL NOT MARRY. 


35 


The officer’s name was De Grapion — Georges De 
Grapion. The Marquis gave him a choice grant of land 
on that part of the Mississippi river “ coast ” known as 
the Cannes Bruises. 

** Of course you know where Cannes Bruises is, don’t 
you ? ” asked Doctor Keene of Joseph Frowenfeld. 

Yes,” said Joseph, with a twinge of reminiscence thit*. 
recalled the study of Louisiana on paper with his father 
and sisters. 

There Georges De Grapion settled, with the laudable 
determination to make a fresh start against the mortify- 
ingly numerous Grandissimes. 

“ My father’s policy was every way bad,” he said to 
his spouse ; “ it is useless, and probably wrong, this 
trying to thin them out by duels ; we will try another 
plan. Thank you,” he added, as she handed his coat 
back to him, with the shoulder-straps cut off. In 
pursuance of the new plan, Madame De Grapion, — the 
precious little heroine ! — before the myrtles offered 
another crop ofberries, bore him a boy not much smaller 
(saith tradition) than herself. 

Only one thing qualified the father’s elation. On that 
very day Numa Grandissime (Brahmin-Mandarin de 
Grandissime), a mere child, received from Governor De 
Vaudreuil a cadetship. 

“ Never mind. Messieurs Grandissime, go on with 
your tricks ; we shall see ! Ha ! we shall see I ” 

“ We shall see what ? ” asked a remote relative of that 
family. ** Will Monsieur be so good as to explain him- 
self?” 


36 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


Bang ! bang ! 

Alas, Madame De Grapion ! 

It may be recorded that no afifair of honor in 
Louisiana ever left a braver little widow. When Joseph 
and his doctor pretended to play chess together, but 
little more than a half-century had elapsed since the fille a 
la cassette stood before the Grand Marquis and refused to 
wed. Yet she had been long gone into the skies, leaving 
a worthy example behind her in twenty years of beauti- 
ful widowhood. Her son, the heir and resident of the 
plantation at Cannes Brulees, at the age of — they do say 
— eighteen, had married a blithe and pretty lady of 
Franco-Spanish extraction, and, after a fair length of 
life divided between campaigning under the brilliant 
young Galvez and raising unremunerative indigo crops, 
had lately lain down to sleep, leaving only two descend- 
ants — females — how shall we describe them ? — a Monk 
and a Fille a la Cassette. It was very hard to have to go 
leaving his family name snuffed out and certain Grandis- 
sime-ward grievances burning. 

‘‘There are so many Grandissimes,” said the weary- 
eyed Frowenfeld, “ I cannot distinguish between — I can 
scarcely count them.” 

“ Well, now,” said the doctor, “ let me tell you, don’t 
try. They can’t do it themselves. Take them in the 
mass — as you would shrimps.” 


CHAPTER VI. 


LOST OPPORTUNITIES. 

The little doctor tipped his chair back against the 
wall, drew up his knees, and laughed whimperingly in 
his freckled hands. 

‘‘ I had to do some prodigious lying at that ball. I 
didn’t dare let the De Grapion ladies know they were in 
company with a Grandissime.” 

“ I thought you said their name was Nancanou.” 

‘‘Well, certainly — De Grapion-Nancanou. You see, 
that is one of their charms ; one is a widow, the other is 
her daughter, and both as young and beautiful as Hebe. 
Ask Honors Grandissime ; he has seen the little widow ; 
but then he don’t know who she is. He will not ask 
me, and I will not tell him. Oh yes ; it is about eigh- 
teen years now since old De Grapion — elegant, high- 
stepping old fellow — married her, then only sixteen 
years of age, to young Nancanou, an indigo-planter on 
the Fausse Riviere — the old bend, you know, behind 
Pointe Coupee. The young couple went there to live. 
I have been told they had one of the prettiest places in 
Louisiana. He was a man of cultivated tastes, educated 
in Paris, spoke English, was handsome (convivial, of 
course), and of perfectly pure blood. But there was one 
thing old De Grapion overlooked ; he and his son-im 
law were the last of their names. In Lousiana a man 


38 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


needs kinfolk. He ought to have married his daughtet 
into a strong house. They say that Numa Grandissime 
(Honore’s father) and he had patched up a peace be- 
tween the two families that included even old Agricola, 
and that he could have married her to a Grandissime. 
However, he is supposed to have known what he was 
about. 

“A matter of business called young Nancanou to 
New Orleans. He had no friends here ; he was a 
Creole, but what part of his life had not been spent on 
his plantation he had passed in Europe. He could not 
leave his young girl of a wife alone in that exiled sort of 
plantation life, so he brought her and the child (a girl) 
down with him as far as to her father’s place, left them 
there, and came on to the city alone. 

“ Now, what does the old man do but give him a let- 
ter of introduction to old Agricole Fusilier ! (His name 
is Agricola, but we shorten it to Agricole.) It seems 
that old De Grapion and Agricole had had the indiscre- 
tion to scrape up a mutually complimentary correspond- 
ence. And to Agricole the young man went. 

“ They became intimate at once, drank together, 
danced with the quadroons together, and got into as 
much mischief in three days as I ever did in a fortnight. 
So affairs went on until by an by they were gambling 
together. One night they were at the Piety Club, play- 
ing hard, and the planter lost his last quarti. He be° 
came desperate, and did a thing I have known more 
than one planter to do : wrote his pledge for every ar- 
pent of his land and every slave on it, and staked that. 
Agricole refused to play. ^ You shall play,’ said Nanca- 
nou, and when the game was ended he said : ‘ Monsieur 
Agricola Fusilier, you cheated.’ You see? Just as I 


LOST OPPORTUNITIES. 


39 


have frequently been tempted to remark to my friend, 
Mr. Frowenfeld. 

But, Frowenfeld, you must know, withal the Creoles 
are such gamblers, they never cheat ; they play abso- 
lutely fair. So Agricole had to challenge the planter. 
He could not be blamed for that ; there was no choice — 
oh, now, Frowenfeld, keep quiet! I tell you there was 
no choice. And the fellow was no coward. He sent 
Agricole a clear title to the real estate and slaves, — lack' 
ing only the wife’s signature, — accepted the challenge 
and fell dead at the first fire. 

“Stop, now, and let me finish. Agricole sat down 
and wrote to the widow that he did not wish to deprive 
her of her home, and that if she would state in writing 
her belief that the stakes had been won fairly, he would 
give back the whole estate, slaves and all ; but that if 
she would not, he should feel compelled to retain it in 
vindication of his honor. Now wasn’t that drawing a 
fine point ? ” The doctor laughed according to his 
habit, with his face down in his hands. “ You see, he 
wanted to stand before all creation — the Creator did not 
make so much difference — in the most exquisitely proper 
light ; so he puts the laws of humanity under his feet, 
and anoints himself from head to foot with Creole punc- 
tilio.” 

“ Did she sign the paper? ” asked Joseph. 

“She? Wait till you know her I No, indeed; she 
had the true scorn. She and her father sent down an- 
other and a better title. Creole-like, they managed to 
bestir themselves to that extent and there they stopped. 

“ And the airs with which they did it 1 They kept all 
meu- raee to themselves, and sent the polite word, that 
diey were not acquainted with the merits of the case, 


THE GRANDISSIMES, 


that they were not disposed to make the long and ardu^ 
ous trip to the city and back, and that if M. Fusilier de 
Grandissime thought he could find any pleasure or profit 
ill owning the place, he was welcome \ that the widow 
of his late friend was not disposed to live on it, but 
would remain with her father at the paternal home at 
Cannes Bruises. 

“ Did you ever hear of a more perfect specimen of 
Creole pride ? That is the way with all of them. Show 
me any Creole, or any number of Creoles, in any sort of 
contest, and right down at the foundation of it all, I will 
find you this same preposterous, apathetic, fantastic, sui- 
cidal pride. It is as lethargic and ferocious as an alligator. 
That is why the Creole almost always is (or thinks he is) 
on the defensK s. See these De Grapions’ haughty good 
manners to old Agricole ; yet there wasn’t a Grandissime 
in Louisiana who could have set foot on the De Grapion 
lands but at the risk of his life. 

“But I will finish the story; and here is the really 
sad part. Not many months ago, old De Grapion — 
*old,’ said I; they don’t grow old; I call him old — a 
few months ago he died. He must have left everything 
smothered in debt ; for, like his race, he had stuck to in- 
digo because his father planted it, and it is a crop that 
has lost money steadily for years and years. His daugh- 
ter and granddaughter were left like babes in the wood ; 
and, to crown their disasters, have now made the grave 
mistake of coming to the city, where they find they 
haven’t a friend — not one, sir ! They called me in to 
prescribe for a trivial indisposition, shortly after their 
arrival ; and I tell you, Frowenfeld, it made me shiver 
to see two such beautiful women in such a town as thL 
without a male protector, and even ” — the doctor low • 


LOST OPPORTUNITIES. 


41 


ered his voice — “ without adequate support. The 
mother says they are perfectly comfortable ; tells the 
old couple so who took them to the ball, and whose lit* 
tie girl is their embroidery scholar ; but you cannot be- 
lieve a Creole on that subject, and I don’t believe her 
Would you like to make their acquaintance ? ” 

Frowenfeld hesitated, disliking to say no to his friend 
and then shook his head. 

After a while — at least not now, sir, if you please.” 

The doctor made a gesture of disappointment. 

“ Um-hum,” he said grumly — “the only man in New 
Orleans I would honor with an invitation ! — but all right ; 
I’ll go alone.” 

He laughed a little at himself, and left Frowenfeld, if 
ever he should desire it, to make the acquaintance of his 
pretty neighbors as best he could. 


CHAPTER VII. 


WAS IT HONORS GRANDISSIME? 

A Creole gentleman, on horseback one morning 
with some practical object in view, — drainage, possibly, 
— had got what he sought, — the evidence of his own 
eyes on certain points, — and now moved quietly across 
some old fields toward the town, where more absorbing 
interests awaited him in the Rue Toulouse; for this 
Creole gentleman was a merchant, and because he would 
presently find himself among the appointments and re- 
straints of the counting-room, he heartily gave himself up, 
for the moment, to the surrounding influences of nature. 

It was late in November; but the air was mild and 
the grass and foliage green and dewy. Wild flowers 
bloomed plentifully and in all directions; the bushes 
were hung, and often covered, with vines of sprightly 
green, sprinkled thickly with smart-looking little worth- 
less berries, whose sparkling complacency the combined 
contempt of man, beast and bird could not dim. The 
call of the field-lark came continually out of the grass, 
where now and then could be seen his yellow breast; 
the orchard oriole was executing his fantasias in every 
tree; a covey of partridges ran across the path close under 
the horse’s feet, and stopped to look back almost within 
reach of the riding- whip; clouds of starlings, in their 
odd, irresolute way, rose from the high bulrushes and 


WAS IT HONORt GRANDISSIME? 


43 


settled again, without discernible cause ; little wander- 
ing companies of sparrows undulated from hedge to 
hedge ; a great rabbit-hawk sat alone in the top of a 
lofty pecan-tree ; that petted rowdy, the mocking-bird, 
dropped down into the path to offer fight to the horse, 
and, failing in that, flew up again and drove a crow into 
ignominious retirement beyond the plain ; from a place 
of flags and reeds a white crane shot upward, turned, 
and then, with the slow and stately beat peculiar to her 
wing, sped away until, against the tallest cypress of the 
distant forest, she became a tiny white speck on its 
black, and suddenly disappeared, like one flake of snow. 

The scene was altogether such as to fill any hearty 
soul with impulses of genial friendliness and gentle 
candor ; such a scene as will sometimes prepare a man 
of the world, upon the least direct incentive, to throw 
open the windows of his private thought with a freecrom 
which the atmosphere of no counting-room or drawing- 
room tends to induce. 

The young merchant — he was young — felt this. 
Moreover, the matter of business which had brought him 
out had responded to his inquiring eye with a somewhat 
golden radiance ; and your true man of business — he 
who has reached that elevated pitch of serene, good- 
natured reserve which is of the high art of his calling — 
is never so generous with his pennyworths of thought as 
when newly in possession of some little secret worth 
many pounds. 

By and by the behavior of the horse indicated the 
near presence of a stranger ; and the next moment the 
rider drew rein under an immense live-oak where there 
was a bit of paling about some graves, and raised his hat. 

“Good-morning, sir.’ But for the silent r’s, his 


44 


-HE GRANDISSIMES. 


pronunciation was exact, yet evidently an acquired one. 
While he spoke his salutation in English, he was think- 
in French : “ Without doubt, this rather oversized, 

bare headed, interrupted-looking convalescent who stands 
before me, wondering how I should know in what 
language to address him, is Joseph Frowenfeld, of whom 
Doctor Keene has had so much to say to me. A good 
face — unsophisticated, but intelligent, mettlesome and 
honest. He will make his mark ; it will probably be a 
white one ; I will subscribe to the adventure.” 

“You will excuse me, sir?” he asked after a pause, 
dismounting, and noticing, as he did so, that Frowen- 
feld’s knees showed recent contact with the turf ; “I 
have, myself, some interest in two of these graves, 
sir, as I suppose — you will pardon my freedom — you 
have in the other four.” 

He approached the old but newly whitened paling, 
which encircled the tree’s trunk as well as the six graves 
about it. There was in his face and manner a sort of 
impersonal human kindness, well calculated to engage 
a diffident and sensitive stranger, standing in dread of 
gratuitous benevolence or pity. 

“ Yes, sir,” said the convalescent, and ceased ; but the 
other leaned against the palings in an attitude of atten- 
tion, and he felt induced to add : “I have buried here 
my father, mother and two sisters,” — he had expected 
to continue in an unemotional tone ; but a deep respir- 
ation usurped the place of speech. He stooped quickly 
to pick up his hat, and, as he rose again and looked into 
his listener’s face, the respectful, unobtrusive sympathy 
there expressed went directly to his heart. 

“ Victims of the fever,” said the Creole with great 
gravity. “ How did that happen ? ” 


JVAS IT HONOR i GRANDISSIME? 


45 


As Frowenfeld, after a moment’s hesitation, began to 
speak, the stranger let go the bridle of his horse and sat 
down upon the turf. Joseph appreciated the courtesy 
and sat down, too ; and thus the ice was broken. 

The immigrant told his story ; he was young — often 
younger than his years — and his listener several years 
his senior ; but the Creole, true to his blood, was able at 
any time to make himself as young as need be, and 
possessed the rare magic of drawing one’s confidence 
without seeming to do more than merely pay attention. 
It followed that the story was told in full detail, including 
grateful acknowledgment of the goodness of an unknown 
friend, who had granted this burial-place on condition 
that he should not be sought out for the purpose of 
thanking him. 

So a considerable time passed by, in which acquain- 
tance grew with delightful rapidity. 

‘‘ What will you do now ? ” asked the stranger, when 
a short silence had followed the conclusion of the story. 

I hardly know. I am taken somewhat by surprise. 
I have not chosen a definite course in life — as yet. I 
have been a general student, but have not prepared my- 
self for any profession ; I am not sure what I shall 
be.” 

A certain energy in the immigrant’s face half redeemed 
this child-like speech. Yet the Creole’s lips, as he 
opened them to reply, betrayed amusement ; so he 
hastened to say : 

** I appreciate your position, Mr. Frowenfeld, — excuse 
me, I believe you said that was your father’s name. And 
yet,” — the shadow of an amused smile lurked another 
instant about a corner of his mouth, — “if you would 
understand me kindly I would say, take care ” 


46 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


What little blood the convalescent had rushed violently 
to his face, and the Creole added : 

“ I do not insinuate you would willingly be idle. I 
think I know what you want. You want to make up 
your mind noiv what you will dOy and at your leisure 
what you will be ; eh ? To be, it seems to me,’’ he said 
in summing up, — “ that to be is not so necessary as to 
do, eh ? or am I wrong ? ” 

*‘No, sir,” replied Joseph, still red, was feeling 
that just now. I will do the first thing that offers ; I 
can dig.” 

The Creole shrugged and pouted. 

“ And be called a dos hriUe — a ‘ burnt-back.’ ” 

“But” began the immigrant, with overmuch 

warmth. 

The other interrupted him, shaking his head slowly, 
and smiling as he spoke. 

“ Mr. Frowenfeld, it is of no use to talk ; you may 
hold in contempt the Creole scorn of toil — ^just as I do, 
myself, but in theory, my-de’-seh, not too much in prac- 
tice. You cannot afford to be entirely different to the 
community in which you live ; is that not so ? ” 

“A friend of mine,” said Frowenfeld, “ has told me I 
must * compromise.’ ” 

“You must get acclimated,” responded the Creole; 
“ not in body only, that you have done ; but in mind — 
in taste— ^in conversation — and in convictions too, yes, 
ha, ha ! They all do it — all who come. They hold out 
a little while — a very little ; then they open their stores 
on Sunday, they import cargoes of Africans, they bribe 
the officials, they smuggle goods, they have colored 
housekeepers. My-de’-seh, the water must expect to 
tak^ the shape of the bucket ; eh ?” 


WAS IT HONORS GRANDISSIME ? 47 

“ One need not be water ! ” said the immigrant. 

“ Ah ! ’’ said the Creole, with another amiable shrug, 
and a wave of his hand ; “ certainly you do not suppose 
that is my advice — that those things have my approval.” 

Must we repeat already that Frowenfeld was abnor- 
mally young ? 

Why have they not your condemnation ? ” cried he 
with an earnestness that made the Creole’s horse drop 
the grass from his teeth and wheel half around. 

The answer came slowly and gently. 

“ Mr. Frowenfeld, my habit is to buy cheap and sell 
at a profit. My condemnation ? My-de’-seh, there is 
no sa-a-ale for it ! it spoils the sale of other goods, my- 
de’-seh. It is not to condemn that you want ; you want 
to s,\ic-ceed, Ha, ha, ha ! you see I am a merchant, eh ? 
My-de’-seh, cdiW you afford not to succeed ? ” 

The speaker had grown very much in earnest in the 
course of these few words, and as he asked the closing 
question, arose, arranged his horse’s bridle and with his 
elbow in the saddle, leaned his handsome head on his 
equally beautiful hand. His whole appearance was a 
dazzling contradiction of the notion that a Creole is a 
person of mixed blood. 

“ I think I can ! ” replied the convalescent, with much 
spirit, rising with more haste than was good, and stag- 
gering a moment. 

The horseman laughed outright. 

“Your principle is the best, I cannot dispute that; 
but whether you can act it out — reformers do not make 
money, you know.” He examined his saddle-girth and 
began to tighten it. “ One can condemn — too cautiously 
— by a kind of — elevated cowardice (I have that fault) ; 
but one can also condemn too rashly ; I remember 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


when I did so. One of the occupants of those two 
graves you see yonder side by side — I think might 
have lived longer if I had not spoken so rashly for 
his rights. Did you ever hear of Bras-Coup6, Mr. 
Frowenfeld ? ” 

“ I have heard only the name." 

‘*Ah! Mr. Frowenfeld, there was a bold man's 
chance to denounce wrong and oppression ! Why, 
that negro’s death changed the whole channel of my 
convictions." 

The speaker had turned and thrown up his arm with 
frowning earnestness ; he dropped it and smiled at him- 
self. 

Do not mistake me for one of your new-fashioned 
Philadelphia ‘ 7iegrhophiles ’/ I am a mechant, my-de’- 
seh, a good subject of His Catholic Majesty, a Creole 
of the Creoles, and so forth, and so fouth. Come ! " 

He slapped the saddle. 

To have seen and heard them a little later as they 
moved toward the city, the Creole walking before the 
horse, and Frowenfeld sitting in the saddle, you might 
have supposed them old acquaintances. Yet the immi- 
grant was wondering who his companion might be. 
He had not introduced himself — seemed to think that 
even an immigrant might know his name without ask- 
ing. Was it Honore Grandissime ? Joseph was tempted 
to guess so ; but the initials inscribed on the silver- 
mounted pommel of the fine old Spanish saddle did not 
bear out that conjecture. 

The stranger talked freely. The sun’s rays seemed to 
set all the sweetness in him a- working, and his pleasant 
worldly wisdom foamed up and out like fermenting 
honey. 


WAS IT HONOR E GRANDISSIME? 49 

By and by the way led through a broad, grassy lane 
where the path turned alternately to right and left 
among some wild acacias. The Creole waved his hand 
toward one of them and said : 

“ Now, Mr. Frowenfeld, you see ? one man walks 
where he sees another’s track ; that is what makes a 
path ; but you want a man, instead of passing around 
this prickly bush, to lay hold of it with his naked hands 
and pull it up by the roots.” 

But a man armed with the truth is far from being 
bare-handed,” replied the convalescent, and they went 
on, more and more interested at every step, — one in 
this very raw imported material for an excellent man, 
the other in so striking an exponent of a unique land 
and people. 

They came at length to the crossing of two streets, 
and the Creole, pausing in his speech, laid his hand upon 
the bridle. 

Frowenfeld dismounted. 

Do we part here ? ” asked the Creole. Well, Mr. 
Frowenfeld, I hope to meet you soon again.” 

Indeed, I thank you, sir,” said Joseph, and I hope 
we shall, although ” 

The Creole paused with a foot in the stirrup and in- 
terrupted him with a playful gesture ; then as the horse 
stirred, he mounted and drew in the rein. 

“I know; you want to say you cannot accept my 
philosophy and I cannot appreciate yours ; but I appre- 
ciate it more than you think, my-de’-seh.” 

The convalescent’s smile showed much fatigue. 

The Creole extended his hand ; the immigrant seized 
it, wished to ask his name, but did not ; and the next 
moment he was gone. 

2 


50 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


The convalescent walked meditatively toward his 
quarters, with a faint feeling of having been found asleep 
on duty, and awakened by a passing stranger. It was 
an unpleasant feeling, and he caught himself more than 
once shaking his head. He stopped, at length, and 
looked back ; but the Creole was long since out of sight. 
The mortified self-accuser little knew how very similar 
a feeling that vanished person was carrying away with 
him. He turned and resumed his walk, wondering who 
Monsieur might be, and a little impatient with himself 
that he had not asked. 

It is Honore Grandissime ; it must be he ! ” he said 
Yet see how soon he felt obliged to change his mind 


CHAPTER VIII. 


SIGNED — HONORE GRANDISSIME. 

On the afternoon of the same day, having decided 
what he would ‘"do,” he started out in search of new 
quarters. He found nothing then, but next morning 
came upon a small, single-story building in the rue 
Royale, — corner of Conti, — which he thought would 
suit his plans. There were a door and show-window in 
the rue Royale, two doors in the intersecting street, and 
a small apartment in the rear which would answer for 
sleeping, eating, and studying purposes, and which con- 
nected with the front apartment by a door in the left- 
hand corner. This connection he would partially con- 
ceal by a prescription-desk. A counter would run 
lengthwise toward the rue Royale, along the wall oppo- 
site the side-doors. Such was the spot that soon became 
known as “ Frowenfeld’s Corner.” 

The notice A Louer” directed him to inquire at 
numero — , rue Cond^. Here he was ushered through 
the wicket of a porte coMre into a broad, paved corri- 
dor, and up a stair into a large, cool room, and into the 
presence of a man who seemed, in some respects, the 
most remarkable figure he had yet seen in this little city 
of strange people. A strong, clear, olive complexion ; 
features that were faultless (unless a woman-like delicacy, 
that was yet not effeminate, was a fault) ; hair en queue^ 


52 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


ihe handsomer for its premature streakings of gray ; a 
tall, well knit form, attired in cloth, linen and leather 
of the utmost fineness ; manners Castilian, with a gravity 
almost oriental, — made him one of those rare masculine 
figures which, on the public promenade, men look back 
at and ladies inquire about. 

Now, who might this be ? The rent poster had given 
no name. Even the incurious Frowenfeld would fain 
guess a little. For a man to be just of this sort, it 
seemed plain that he must live in an isolated ease upon 
the unceasing droppings of coupons, rents, and like re- 
ceivables. Such was the immigrant’s first conjecture ; 
and, as with slow, scant questions and answers they 
made their bargain, every new glance strengthened it; 
he was evidently a rentier. What, then, was his aston- 
ishment when Monsieur bent down and made himself 
Frowenfeld’s landlord, by writing what the universal 
mind esteemed the synonym of enterprise and activity — 
the name of Honors Grandissime. The landlord did not 
see, or ignored, his tenant’s glance of surprise, and the 
tenant asked no questions. 

We may add here an incident which seemed, when it 
took place, as unimportant as a single fact well could be. 

The little sum that Frowenfeld had inherited from his 
father had been sadly depleted by the expenses of four 
funerals ; yet he was still able to pay a month’s rent in 
advance, to supply his shop with a scant stock of drugs, 
to purchase a celestial globe and some scientific appara- 
tus, and to buy a dinner or two of sausages and crack- 
ers ; but after this there was no necessity of hiding his 
purse. 

His landlord early contracted a fondness for dropping 


SIGNED— HONORt GRANDISSIMME. S3 

in upon him, and conversing with him, as best the few 
and labored English phrases at his command would 
allow. Frowenfeld soon noticed that he never entered 
the shop unless its proprietor was alone, never sat down, 
and always, with the same perfection of dignity that 
characterized all his movements, departed immediately 
upon the arrival of any third person. One day, when 
the landlord was making one of these standing calls,- — 
he always stood beside a high glass case, on the side of 
the shop opposite the counter, — he noticed in Joseph’s 
hand a sprig of basil, and spoke of it. 

“You ligue?” 

The tenant did not understand. 

“ You — find — dad — nize ? ” 

Frowenfeld replied that it had been left by the over- 
sight of a customer, and expressed a liking for its odor. 

“ I sand you,” said the landlord, — a speech whose 
meaning Frowenfeld was not sure of until the next 
morning, when a small, nearly naked, black boy, who 
could not speak a word of English, brought to the apoth- 
ecary a luxuriant bunch of this basil, growing in a 
rough box. 


CHAPTER IX. 


ILLUSTRATING THE TRACTIVE POWER OF BASIL. 

On the twenty-fourth day of December, 1803, at two 
o’clock, P. M., the thermometer standing at 79, hygro- 
meter 17, barometer 29.880, sky partly clouded, wind 
west, light, the apothecary of the rue Royale, now some- 
thing more than a month established in his calling, 
might have been seen standing behind his counter and 
beginning to show embarrassment in the presence of a 
lady, who, since she had got her prescription filled and 
had paid for it, ought in the conventional course of things 
to have hurried out, followed by the pathetically ugly 
black woman who tarried at the door as her attendant ; for 
to be in an apothecary shop at all was unconventional. 
She was heavily veiled ; but the sparkle of her eyes, 
which no multiplication of veils could quite extinguish, 
her symmetrical and well-fitted figure, just escaping 
smallness, her grace of movement, and a soft, joyous 
voice, had several days before led Frowenfeld to the 
confident conclusion that she was young and beautiful. 

For this was now the third time she had come to buy ; 
and, though the purchases were unaccountably trivial, the 
purchaser seemed not so. On the two previous occasions 
she had been accompanied by a slender girl, somewhat 
taller than she, veiled also, of graver movement, a bear- 
ing that seemed to Joseph almost too regal, and a dis- 


ILL USTRA TING THE TRA C TIVE PO WER OF BASIL, 5 5 

cernible unwillingness to enter or tarry. There seemed 
a certain family resemblance between her voice and that 
of the other, that proclaimed them — he incautiously 
assumed — sisters. This time, as we see, the smaller, and 
probably elder, came alone. 

She still held in her hand the small silver which 
Frowenfeld had given her in change, and sighed after 
the laugh they had just enjoyed together over a slip in 
her English. A very grateful sip of sweet the laugh was 
to the all but friendless apothecary, and the embarrass- 
ment that rushed in after it may have arisen in part from a 
conscious casting about in his mind for something — any- 
thing — that might prolong her stay an instant. He 
opened his lips to speak ; but she was quicker than he, 
and said, in a stealthy way that seemed oddly un- 
necessary : 

You 'ave some basilic ? ” 

She accompanied her words with a little peeping 
movement, directing his attention, through the open 
door, to his box of basil, on the floor in the rear room. 

Frowenfeld stepped back to it, cut half the bunch, 
and returned, with the bold intention of making her a 
present of it ; but as he hastened back to the spot he 
had left, he was astonished to see the lady disappearing 
from his farthest front door, followed by her negress. 

Did she change her mind, or did she misunderstand 
me ? ” he asked himself ; and, in the hope that she 
might return for the basil, he put it in water in his back 
room. 

The day being, as the figures have already shown, an 
unusually mild one, even for a Louisiana December, and 
the finger of the clock drawing by and by toward the 
last hour of sunlight, some half dozen of Frowenfeld s 


50 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


townsmen had gathered, inside and out, some standing^ 
some sitting, about his front door, and all discussing the 
popular topics of the day. For it might have been 
anticipated that, in a city where so very little English 
was spoken and no newspaper published except that 
beneficiary of eighty subscribers, the “ Moniteur de la 
Louisiane,’* the apothecary shop in the rue Royale 
would be the rendezvous for a select company of 
English-speaking gentlemen, with a smart majority of 
physicians. 

The Cession had become an accomplished fact. With 
due drum-beatings and act-reading, flag-raising, cannon- 
ading and galloping of aides-de-camp, Nouvelle Orleans 
had become New Orleans, and Louisiane was Louisiana. 
This afternoon, the first week of American jurisdiction 
was only something over half gone, and the main topic 
of public debate was still the Cession. Was it genuine ? 
and, if so, would it stand ? 

** Mark my words,” said one, “the British flag will 
be floating over this town within ninety days ! ” and he 
went on whittling the back of his chair. 

From this main question, the conversation branched 
out to the subject of land titles. Would that great 
majority of Spanish titles derived from the concessions of 
post-commandants and others of minor authority, hold 
good ? 

“ I suppose you know what thinks about it ? ” 

“No.” 

“ Well, he has quietly purchased the grant made by 

Carondelet to the Marquis of , thirty thousand acres, 

and now says the grant is two hundred and thirty thou- 
sand. That is one style of men Governor Claiborne is 
going to have on his hands. The town will presently be 


ILL US TRA TING THE TRA C TIVE PO WER OF BASIL. 5 7 

as full of them as my pocket is of tobacco crumbs, — 
every one of them with a Spanish grant as long as Clark’s 
rope-walk, and made up since the rumor of the Cession.” 

“ I hear that some of Honors Grandissime’s titles are 
likely to turn out bad, — some of the old Brahmin pro- 
perties and some of the Mandarin lands.” 

“ Fudge ! ” said Doctor Keene. 

There was also the subject of rotation in office. Would 
this provisional governor-general himself be able to stand 
fast ? Had not a man better temporize a while, and see 
what Ex-Governor-general Casa Calvo and Trudeau were 
going to do ? Would not men who sacrificed old pre- 
judices, braved the popular contumely, and came forward 
and gave in their allegiance to the President’s appointee, 
have to take the chances of losing their official positions 
at last ? Men like Camille Brahmin, for instance, or 
Charlie Mandarin : suppose Spain or France should 
get the province back, then where would they be ? 

One of the things I pity most in this vain world,” 
drawled Doctor Keene, “ is a hive of patriots who don’t 
know where to swarm.” 

The apothecary was drawn into the discussion — at 
least he thought he was. Inexperience is apt to think 
that Truth will be knocked down and murdered unless 
she comes to the rescue. Somehow, Frowenfeld’s 
really excellent arguments seemed to give out more heat 
than light. They were merciless ; their principles were 
not only lofty to dizziness, but precipitous, and their 
heights unoccupied, and — to the common sight — un- 
attainable. In consequence, they provoked hostility 
and even resentment. With the kindest, the most 
honest, and even the most modest, intentions, he found 
himself— to his bewilderment and surprise — sniffed at by 
3 * 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


58 

the ungenerous, frowned upon by the impatient, and 
smiled down by the good-natured in a manner that 
brought sudden blushes of exasperation to his face, and 
often made him ashamed to find himself going over these 
sham battles again in much savageness of spirit, when 
^alone with his books ; or, in moments of weakness, cast- 
ing about for such unworthy weapons as irony and satire. 
In the present debate, he had just provoked a sneer that 
made his blood leap and his friends laugh, when Doctor 
Keene, suddenly rising and beckoning across the street, 
exclaimed : 

** Oh ! Agricole ! Agricole ! venezici; we want you.’* 

A murmur of vexed protest arose from two or three. 

“ He’s coming,” said the whittler, who had also 
beckoned. 

** Good evening. Citizen Fusilier,” said Doctor Keene. 

Citizen Fusilier, allow me to present my friend. Pro- 
fessor Frowenfeld — yes, you are a professor — yes, you 
are. He is one of your sort. Citizen Fusilier, a man of 
thorough scientific education. I believe on my soul, 
sir, he knows nearly as much as you do 1 ” 

The person who confronted the apothecary was a 
large, heavily built, but well molded and vigorous man, 
of whom one might say that he was adorned with old 
age. His brow was dark, and furrowed partly by time 
and partly by a persistent ostentatious frown. His eyes 
were large, black, and bold, and the gray locks above 
them curled short and harsh like the front of a bull. 
His nose was fine and strong, and if there was any 
deficiency in mouth or chin, it was hidden by a beard 
that swept down over his broad breast like the beard of 
a prophet. In his dress, which was noticeably soiled, 
the fashions of three decades were hinted at ; he seemed 


JLL USTRA TING THE TRACTIVE PO WER OF BASIL. 59 

to have donned whatever he thought his friends would 
most have liked him to lesve off. 

Professor,” said the old man, extending something 
like the paw of a lion, and giving Frowenfeld plenty of 
time to become thoroughly awed, “ this is a pleasure as 
magnificent as unexpected ! A scientific man ? — in 
Louisiana ? ” He looked around upon the doctors as 
upon a graduating class. Professor, I am rejoiced ! ” 
He paused again, shaking the apothecary’s hand with 
great ceremony. “ I do assure you, sir, I dislike to re- 
linquish your grasp. Do me the honor to allow me to 
become your friend ! I congratulate my down-trodden 
country on the acquisition of such a citizen ! I hope, sir, 
— at least I might have hoped, had not Louisiana just 
passed into the hands of the most clap-trap government 
in the universe, notwithstanding it pretends to be a 
republic, — I might have hoped that you had come 
among us to fasten the lie direct upon a late author, 
who writes of us that ‘ the air of this region is deadly to 
the Muses.’ ” 

“ He didn’t say that ? ” asked one of the debaters, with 
pretended indignation. 

‘‘ He did, sir, after eating our bread ! ” 

“And sucking our sugar-cane, too, no doubt ! ” said 
the wag ; but the old man took no notice. 

Frowenfeld, naturally, was not anxious to reply, and 
was greatly relieved to be touched on the elbow by a 
child with a picayune in one hand and a tumbler in 
the other. He escaped behind the counter and gladly 
remained there. 

“ Citizen Fusilier,” asked one of the gossips, “what 
has the new government to do with the health of the 
Muses ? ” 


6o 


THE GRANDISSIMES, 


“ It introduces the English tongue,” said the old man 
scowling. 

“ Oh, well,” replied the questioner, ** the Creoles will 
soon learn the language. ” 

“ English is not a language, sir ; it is a jargon ! And 
when this young simpleton, Claiborne, attempts to cram 
it down the public windpipe in the courts, as I under- 
stands he intends, he will fail ! Hah ! sir, I know men 
in this city who would rather eat a dog than speak 
English ! /speak it, but I also speak Choctaw.” 

“ The new land titles will be in English.” 

*‘They will spurn his rotten titles. And if he at- 
tempts to invalidate their old ones, why, let him do it ! 
Napoleon Buonaparte ” (Italian pronunciation) will 
make good every arpent within the next two years. 
Think so? I know it! How? H-I perceive it ! H-I 
hope the yellow fever may spare you to witness it.” 

A sullen grunt from the circle showed the ‘‘citizen” 
that he had presumed too much upon the license com- 
monly accorded his advanced age, and by way of a 
diversion he looked around for Frowenfeld to pour new 
flatteries upon. But Joseph, behind his counter, un- 
aware of either the offense or the resentment, was blush- 
ing with pleasure before a visitor who had entered by 
the side door farthest from the company. 

* “ Gentlemen,” said Agricola, “ h-my dear friends, you 

must not expect an old Creole to like anything in com- 
parison with la belle langueT 

“Which language do you call la belle?*' asked 
Doctor Keene, with pretended simplicity. 

The old man bent upon him a look of unspeakable 
contempt, which nobody noticed. The gossips were 
one by one stealing a glance toward that which ever 


ILLUSTRATING THE TRACTIVE POWER OF BASIL. 6l 

was, is and must be, an irresistible lodestone to the 
eyes of all the sons of Adam, to wit, a chaste and grace- 
ful complement of — skirts. Then in a lower tone they 
resumed their desultory conversation. 

It was the seeker after basil who stood before the 
counter, holding in her hand, with her purse, the heavy 
veil whose folds had before concealed her features. 


CHAPTER X. 


*^00 DAD IS, ’SIEUR FROWENFEL’ ? ” 

Whether the removal of the veil was because of the 
milder light of the evening, or the result of accident, or 
of haste, or both, or whether, by reason of some exciting 
or absorbing course of thought, the wearer had with- 
drawn it unconsciously, was a matter that occupied the 
apothecary as little as did Agricola’s continued harangue. 
As he looked upon the fair face through the light gauze 
which still overhung but not obscured it, he readily per- 
ceived, despite the sprightly smile, something like dis« 
tress, and as she spoke this became still more evident 
in her hurried undertone. 

’Sieur Frowenfel’, I want you to sell me doze 
basilic, 

As she slipped the rings of her purse apart her fingers 
trembled. 

‘‘It is waiting for you,” said Frowenfeld ; but the 
lady did not hear him ; she was giving her attention 
to the loud voice of Agricola saying in the course of 
discussion : 

“The Louisiana Creole is the noblest variety of em 
lightened man ! ” 

“ Oo dad is, ’Sieur Frowenfel’?” she asked, softly, 
but with an excited eye. 

“That is Mr. Agricola Fusilier,” answered Joseph in 


“ 00 DAD IS, ^SIEUR FROWENFEL'' 63 

the same tone, his heart leaping inexplicably as he m;t 
her glance. With an angry flush she looked quickly 
around, scrutinized the old man in an instantaneous, 
thorough way, and then glanced back at the apothecary 
again, as if asking him to fulfil her request the quicker. 

He hesitated, in doubt as to her meaning. 

“ Wrap it yonder,” she almost whispered. 

He went, and in a moment returned, with the basil 
only partially hid in a paper covering. 

But the lady, muffled again in her manifold veil had 
once more lost her eagerness for it ; at least, instead of 
taking it, she moved aside, offering room for a masculine 
figure just entering. She did not look to see who it 
might be— plenty of time to do that by accident, by and 
by. There she made a mistake ; for the new-comer, 
with a silent bow of thanks, declined the place made 
for him, moved across the shop, and occupied his eyes 
with the contents of the glass case, his back being 
turned to the lady and Frowenfeld. The apothecary 
recognized the Creole whom he had met under the live- 
oak. 

The lady put forth her hand suddenly to receive the 
package. As she took it and turned to depart, another 
small hand was laid upon it and it was returned to the 
counter. Something was said in a low-pitched under- 
tone, and the two sisters — if Frowenfeld’s guess was 
right — confronted each other. For a single instant only 
they stood so ; an earnest and hurried murmur of French 
words passed between them, and they turned together, 
bowed with great suavity, and were gone. 

“ The Cession is a mere temporary political manoeu- 
vre !” growled M. Fusilier. 

Frowenfeld’s merchant friend came from his place of 


64 


THE GRANDISSIMES, 


waiting, and spoke twice before he attracted the attention 
of the bewildered apothecary. 

“Good-day, Mr. Frowenfeld ; I have been told 
that ’’ 

Joseph gazed after the two ladies crossing the street, and 
felt uncomfortable that the group of gossips did the same. 
So did the black attendant who glanced furtively back. 

“ Good-day, Mr. Frowenfeld ; I ” 

“Oh! how do you do, sir? ” exclaimed the apothe- 
cary, with great pleasantness of face. It seemed the 
most natural thing that they should resume their late 
conversation just where they had left off, and that would 
certainly be pleasant. But the man of more experience 
showed an unresponsive expression, that was as if he 
remembered no conversation of any note. 

“ I have been told that you might be able to replace 
the glass in this thing out of your private stock." 

He presented a small, leather-covered case, evidently 
containing some optical instrument. “ It will give me a 
pretext for going,” he had said to himself, as he put it 
into his pocket in his counting-room. He was not 
going to let the apothecary know he had taken such a 
fancy to him. 

^‘I do not know,” replied Frowenfeld, as he touched 
the spring of the case ; “I will see what I have.” 

He passed into the back room, more than willing to 
get out of sight till he might better collect himself. 

“ I do not keep these things for sale,” said he as he 
went. 

“ Sir ? ” asked the Creole, as if he had not understood, 
and followed through the open door. 

“ Is this what that lady was getting ? ” he asked, 
touching the remnant of the basil in the box. 


*‘00 DAD !S, ‘STEUR FROfVENFEL* r* 65 

Yes, sir,” said the apothecary, with his face in the 
drawer of a table. 

“ They had no carriage with them.” The Creole 
spoke with his back turned, at the same time running 
his eyes along a shelf of books. Frowenfeld made 
only the sound of rejecting bits of crystal and taking up 
others. I do not know who they are,” ventured the 
merchant. 

Joseph still gave no answer, but a moment after ap- 
proached, with the instrument in his extended hand. 

“ You had it ? I am glad,” said the owner, receiving 
it, but keeping one hand still on the books. 

Frowenfeld put up his materials. 

“ Mr. Frowenfeld, are these your books ? I mean do 
you use these books ? ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

The Creole stepped back to the door. 

“ Agricola ! ” 

Quoi/'^ 

** Vien id.'* 

Citizen Fusilier entered, followed by a small volley of 
retorts from those with whom he had been disputing, 
and who rose as he did. The stranger said something 
very sprightly in French, running the back of one finger 
down the rank of books, and a lively dialogue followed. 

You must be a great scholar,” said the unknown by 
and by, addressing the apothecary. 

He is a professor of chimistry,” said the old man. 

** I am nothing, as yet, but a student,” said Joseph, 
as the three returned into the shop; “ certainly not a 
scholar, and still less a professor.” He spoke with a 
new quietness of manner that made the younger Creole 
turn upon him a pleasant look. 


66 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


** H-my young friend,’* said the patriarch, turning 
toward Joseph with a tremendous frown, ** when I, 
Agricola Fusilier, pronounce you a professor, you are a 
professor. Louisiana will not look to you for your 
credentials ; she will look to me ! ” 

He stumbled upon some slight impediment under 
foot. There were times when it took but little to make 
Agricola stumble. 

Looking to see what it was, Joseph picked up a silken 
purse. There was a name embroidered on it. 


CHAPTER XI. 


SUDDEN FLASHES OF LIGHT. 

The day was nearly gone. The company that hao 
been chatting at the front door, and which in warmef 
weather would have tarried until bed-time, had wandered 
off ; however, by stepping toward the light the young 
merchant could decipher the letters on the purse. 
Citizen Fusilier drew out a pair of spectacles, looked 
over his junior’s shoulder, read aloud, Aurore De G. 
Nanca ,” and uttered an imprecation. 

** Do not speak to me ! ” he thundered ; “ do not 
approach me ! she did it maliciously ! ” 

Sir ! ” began Frowenfeid. 

But the old man uttered another tremendous maledic- 
tion and hurried into the street and away. 

** Let him pass,” said the other Creole calmly. 

** What is the matter with him ? ” asked Frowenfeid. 
He is getting old.” The Creole extended the purse 
carelessly to the apothecary. “Has it anything in- 
side ? ” 

“ But a single pistareen.” 

“ That is why she wanted the basilic^ eh ? 

“ I do not understand you, sir.” 

“ Do you not know what she was going to 4<? with 
it?” 

“ With the basil ? No sir.” 


68 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


** May be she was going to make a little tisane^ eh ? ’* 
said the Creole, forcing down a smile. 

But a portion of the smile would come when Frowen- 
feld answered, with unnecessary resentment. 

She was going to make some proper use of it, which 
need not concern me.” 

Without doubt.” 

The Creole quietly walked a step or two forward and 
back and looked idly into the glass-case. “ Is this young 
man in love with her ? ” he asked himself. He turned 
around. 

** Do you know those ladies, Mr. Frowenfeld ? Do 
you visit them at home ? ” 

He drew out his porte-monnaie. 

“ No, sir.” 

‘‘ I will pay you for the repair of this instrument ; 
have you change for ” 

“ I will see,” said the apothecary. 

As he spoke he laid the purse on a stool, till he should 
light his shop and then went to his till without again 
taking it. 

The Creole sauntered across to the counter and nipped 
the herb which still lay there. 

“ Mr. Frowenfeld, you know what some very excel- 
lent people do with this ? They rub it on the sill of the 
door to make the money come into the house.” 

Joseph stopped aghast with the drawer half drawn. 

**Not persons of intelligence and ” 

** All kinds. It is only some of the foolishness which 
they take from the slaves. Many of our best people con- 
sult the voudou horses.” 

“ Horses ? ” 

** Priestesses, you might call them,” explained the 


SUDDEN FLASHES OF LIGHT. 69 

Creole, ** like Momselle Marcelline or ’Zabeth Philo- 
sophe.” 

“ Witches ! ” whispered Frowenfeld. 

Oh no,” said the other with a shrug ; ** that is too 
hard a name ; say fortune-tellers. But Mr. Frowenfeld, 
I wish you to lend me your good offices. Just supposing 
the possi^f/ity that that lady may be in need of money, 
you know, and will send back or come back for the 
purse, you know, knowing that she most likely lost it 
here, I ask you the favor that you will not let her know 
I have filled it with gold. In fact, if she mentions my 
name ” 

‘‘ To confess the truth, sir, I am not acquainted with 
your name.” 

The Creole smiled a genuine surprise. 

thought you knew it.” He laughed a little at 
himself. We have nevertheless become very good 
friends — I believe ? Well, in fact then, Mr. Frowenfeld, 
you might say you do not know who put the money in.” 
He extended his open palm with the purse hanging across 
it. Joseph was about to object to this statement, but the 
Creole, putting on an expression of anxious desire, said : 
‘‘I mean, not by name. It is somewhat important to 
me, Mr. Frowenfeld, that that lady should not know 
my present action. If you want to do those two ladies 
a favor, you may rest assured the way to do it is to say 
you do not know who put this gold.” The Creole in 
his earnestness slipped in his idiom. ‘‘ You will excuse 
me if I do not tell you my name ; you can find it out at 
any time from Agricola. Ah ! I am glad she did not 
see me ! You must not tell anybody about this little 
event, eh ? ” 

“ No, sir,” said Joseph, as he finally accepted the 


70 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


purse. I shall say nothing to any one else, anti 
what I cannot avoid saying to the lady and her sister.” 

“ ' Tis not her sister,'' responded the Creole, “ 'tis hef 
daughter^' 

The italics signify, not how the words were said, but 
how they sounded to Joseph. As if a dark lantern were 
suddenly turned full upon it, he saw the significance of 
Citizen Fusilier’s transport. The fair strangers were the 
widow and daughter of the man whom Agricola had 
killed in duel — the ladies with whom Doctor Keene had 
desired to make him acquainted. 

Well, good-evening, Mr. Frowenfeld.” The Creole 
extended his hand (his people are great hand-shakers). 

** Ah ” and then, for the first time, he came to the 

true object of his visit. “The conversation we had some 
weeks ago, Mr. Frowenfeld, has started a train of 
thought in my mind” — he began to smile as if to convey 
the idea that Joseph would find the subject a trivial one 
— “ which has almost brought me to the ” 

A light footfall accompanied with the soft sweep of 
robes cut short his words. There had been two or three 
entrances and exits during the time the Creole had tar- 
ried, but he had not allowed them to disturb him. Now, 
however, he had no sooner turned and fixed his glance 
upon this last comer, than without so much as the inva- 
riable Creole leave-taking of “Well, good-evening, sir/ 
he hurried out. 


CHAPTER XII. 


THE PHILOSOPHE. 

The apothecary felt an inward nervous start as there 
advanced into the light of his hanging lamp and toward 
the spot where he had halted, just outside the counter, a 
woman of the quadroon caste, of superb stature and 
poise, severely handsome features, clear, tawny skin and 
large, passionate black eyes. 

“ Boti soi^ MiMB [Monsieur.] A rather hard, yet 
not repellent smile showed her faultless teeth. 

Frowenfeld bowed. 

Mo vien c ere er la bourse de Madame.^^ 

She spoke the best French at her command, but it was 
not understood. 

The apothecary could only shake his head. 

La bourse,'' she repeated, softly smiling, but with a 
scintillation of the eyes in resentment of his scrutiny. 
“ La bourse," she reiterated. 

“Purse?” 

“ Oui, MichL" 

“You are sent for it ? ” 

“ Oui, Mich^." 

He drew it from his breast pocket and marked the 
sudden glisten of her eyes, reflecting the glisten of the 
gold in the silken mesh. 

“ Oui, e'est ^a," said she, putting her hand out eagerly. 


72 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


** I am afraid to give you this to-night,” said Joseph. 

** ventured she, dubiously, the lightning play- 

ing deep back in her eyes. 

‘'You might be robbed,” said Frowenfeld. “It is 
very dangerous for you to be out alone. It will not be 
long, now, until gun-fire.” (Eight o’clock P. M. — the gun 
to warn slaves to be in-doors, under pain of arrest and 
imprisonment.) 

The object of this solicitude shook her head with a 
smile at its gratuitousness. The smile showed determi- 
nation also. 

Mo pas compren' ” she said. 

“ Tell the lady to send for it to-morrow.” 

She smiled helplessly and somewhat vexedly, shrugged 
and again shook her head. As she did so she heard 
footsteps and voices in the door at her back. 

“ C'est ga,'' she said again with a hurried attempt at 
extreme amiability ; “ Dat it ; oui ; ” and lifting her hand 
with some rapidity made a sudden eager reach for the 
purse, but failed. 

“No 1 ” said Frowenfeld, indignantly. 

“ Hello ! ” said Charlie Keene amusedly, as he ap- 
proached from the door. 

The woman turned, and in one or two rapid sentences 
in the Creole dialect offered her explanation. 

“ Give her the purse, Joe ; I will answer for its being 
all right.” 

Frowenfeld handed it to her. She started to pass 
through the door in the rue Royale by which Doctor 
Keene had entered ; but on seeing on its threshold Agri- 
cola frowning upon her, she turned quickly with evident 
trepidation, and hurried out into the darkness of the 
other street. 


THE PHILOSOFHE. 73 

Agricola entered. Doctor Keene looked about the 
shop. 

‘‘ I tell you, Agricole, you didn’t have it with you ; 
Frowenfeld, you haven’t seen a big knotted walking- 
stick ? ” 

Frowenfeld was sure no walking-stick had been left 
there. 

“Oh yes, Frowenfeld,” said Doctor Keene, with a 
little laugh, as the three sat down, “ I’d a’most as soon, 
trust that woman as if she was white.” 

The apothecary said nothing. 

“ How free,” said Agricola, beginning with a medita- 
tive gaze at the sky without, and ending with a philo- 
sopher’s smile upon his two companions, — “ how free we 
people are from prejudice against the negro ! ” 

“The white people,” said Frowenfeld, half abstract- 
edly, half inquiringly. 

“ H-my young friend, when we say, * we people,’ we 
always mean we white people. The non-mention of 
color always implies pure white ; and whatever is not 
pure white is to all intents and purposes pure black. 
When I say the ‘ whole community,’ I mean the whole 
white portion ; when I speak of the ‘ undivided public 
sentiment,’ I mean the sentiment of the white popula- 
tion. What else could I mean ? Could you suppose, 
sir, the expression which you may have heard me use — 
‘ my down-trodden country ’ includes blacks and mulat- 
toes ? What is that up yonder in the sky ? The moon. 
The new moon, or the old moon, or the moon in her 
third quarter, but always the moon ! Which part of it ? 
Why, the shining part — the white part, always and only I 
Not that there is a prejudice against the negro. By no 
means. Wherever he can be of any service in a strictly 


74 


THE GRANDISSIMES, 


menial capacity we kindly and generously tolerate his 
presence.” 

Was the immigrant growing wise, or weak, that he 
remained silent ? 

Agricola rose as he concluded and said he would go 
home. Doctor Keene gave him his hand lazily, with- 
out rising. 

“Frowenfeld,” he said, with a smile, and in an under- 
tone as Agricola’s footsteps died away, “ don’t you 
know who that woman is ? ” 

“ No.” 

“Well, I’ll tell you.” 

He told him. 

On that lonely plantation at the Cannes Bruises, 
where Aurore Nancanou’s childhood had been passed 
without brothers or sisters, there had been given her, 
according to the well-known custom of plantation life, a 
little quadroon slave-maid as her constant and only play- 
mate. This maid began early to show herself in many 
ways remarkable. While yet a child she grew tall, lithe, 
agile ; her eyes were large and black, and rolled and 
sparkled if she but turned to answer to her name. Her 
pale yellow forehead, low and shapely, with the jet hair 
above it, the heavily pencilled eyebrows and long lashes 
below, the faint red tinge that blushed with a kind of 
cold passion through the clear yellow skin of the cheek, 
the fullness of the red, voluptuous lips and the roundness 
of her perfect neck, gave her, even at fourteen, a barbaric 
and magnetic beauty, that startled the beholder like an 
unexpected drawing out of a jewelled sword. Such a 
type could have sprung only from high Latin ancestry 
on the one side and — we might venture — Jalotf African 


THE PHILOS OPHE. 


n 

on the other. To these charms of person she added 
mental acuteness, conversational adroitness, concealed 
cunning and noiseless but visible strength of will ; and 
to these, that rarest of gifts in one of her tincture, the 
purity of true womanhood. 

At fourteen a necessity which had been parleyed with 
for tw'o years or more became imperative and Aurore’s 
maid was taken from her. Explanation is almost super- 
fluous. Aurore was to become a lady and her playmate 
a lady’s maid ; but not her maid, because the maid had 
become, of the two, the ruling spirit. It was a question 
of grave debate in the mind of M. De Grapion what dis- 
position to make of her. 

About this time the Grandissimes and De Grapions, 
through certain efforts of Honor^’s father (since dead) 
were making some feeble pretences of mutual good feel- 
ing, and one of those Kentuckian dealers in corn and 
tobacco whose flat-boat fleets were always drifting down 
the Mississippi, becoming one day M. De Grapion’s 
transient guest, accidentally mentioned a wish of Agri- 
cola Fusilier. Agricola, it appeared, had commissioned 
him to buy the most beautiful lady’s maid that in his 
extended journeyings he might be able to find ; he 
wanted to make her a gift to his niece, Honor^’s sister. 
The Kentuckian saw the demand met in Aurore’s play- 
mate. M. De Grapion would not sell her. (Trade with 
a Grandissime ? Let them suspect he needed money ?) 
No ; but he would ask Agricola to accept the services 
of the waiting-maid for, say, ten years. The Kentuckian 
accepted the proposition on the spot and it was by and 
by carried out. She was never recalled to the Cannes 
Bruises, but in subsequent years received her freedom 
from her master, and in New Orleans became Palmyre 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


76 

la Philosophe, as they say in the corrupt French of the 
old Creoles, or Palmyre Philosophe, noted for her taste 
and skill as a hair-dresser, for the efficiency of her spells 
and the sagacity of her divinations, but most of all foi 
the chaste austerity with which she practised the less 
baleful rites of the voudous. 

That’s the woman,” said Doctor Keene, rising to 
go, as he concluded the narrative, — that’s she, Palmyre 
Philosophe. Now you get a view of the vastness of 
Agricole’s generosity ; he tolerates her even though 
she does not present herself in the ‘ strictly menial 
capacity.’ Reason why — he's afraid of her,'' 

Time passed, if that may be called time which we 
have to measure with a clock. The apothecary of the 
rue Royale found better ways of measurement. As 
quietly as a spider he was spinning information into 
knowledge and knowledge into what is supposed to be 
wisdom ; whether it was or not we shall see. His 
unidentified merchant friend who had adjured him to 
become acclimated as “ they all did ” had also exhorted 
him to study the human mass of which he had become 
a unit ; but whether that study, if pursued, was sweeten- 
ing and ripening, or whether it was corrupting him, that 
friend did not come to see ; it was the busy time of year. 
Certainly so young a solitary, coming among a people 
whose conventionalities were so at variance with his own j 
door-yard ethics, was in sad danger of being unduly — as | 
we might say — Timonized. His acquaintances con- \ 

tinned to be few in number. | 

During this fermenting period he chronicled much wet | 
and some cold weather. This may in part account for j 
the uneventfulness of its passage ; events do not happen j 


THE PHILOS OPHE. 77 

rapidly among the Creoles in bad weather. However, 
trade was good. 

But the weather cleared ; and when it was get- 
ting well on into the Creole spring and approaching 
the spring of the almanacs, something did occur that 
extended Frowenfeld’s acquaintance without Doctoi 
Keene’s assistance 


CHAPTER XIII 


A CALL FROM THE RENT-SPECTRE. 

It is nearly noon of a balmy morning late in February. 
Aurore Nancanou and her daughter have only this 
moment ceased sewing, in the small front room of No. 
19 rue Bienville. Number 19 is the right-hand half of a 
single-story, low-roofed tenement, washed with yellow 
ochre, which it shares generously with whoever leans 
against it. It sits as fast on the ground as a toad. 
There is a kitchen belonging to it somewhere among the 
weeds in the back yard, and besides this room, where the 
ladies are, there is directly behind it, a sleeping apart- 
ment. Somewhere back of this there is a little nook 
where in pleasant weather they eat. Their cook and 
housemaid is the plain person who attends them on the 
street. Her bed-chamber is the kitchen and her bed 
the floor. The house’s only other protector is a hound, 
the aim of whose life is to get thrust out of the ladies’ 
apartments every fifteen minutes. 

Yet if you hastily picture to yourself a forlorn-looking 
establishment, you will be moving straight away from 
the fact. Neatness, order, excellence, are prevalent 
qualities in all the details of the main house’s inward 
garniture. The furniture is old-fashioned, rich, French, 
imported. The carpets, if not new, are not cheap, 
either. Bits of crystal and silver, visible here and there, 


A CALL FROM THE RENT-SPECTRE. 7 $ 

are as bright as they are antiquated ; and one or two 
portraits, and the picture of Our Lady of Many Sorrows, 
are passably good productions. The brass work, of 
which there is much, is brilliantly burnished, and the 
front room is bright and cheery. 

At the street door of this room somebody has just 
knocked. Aurore has risen from her seat. The other 
still sits on a low chair with her hands and sewing 
dropped into her lap, looking up steadfastly into her 
mother’s face with a mingled expression of fondness and 
dismayed expectation. Aurore hesitates beside her 
chair, desirous of resuming her seat, even lifts her sew- 
ing from it ; but tarries a moment, her alert suspense 
showing in her eyes. Her daughter still looks up into 
them. It is not strange that the dwellers round about 
dispute as to which is the fairer, nor that in the six 
months during which the two have occupied No. 19 the 
neighbors have reached no conclusion on this subject. 
If some young enthusiast compares the daughter — in 
her eighteenth year — to a bursting blush rosebud full of 
promise, some older one immediately retorts that the 
other — in her thirty-fifth — is the red, red, full-blown, 
faultless joy of the garden. If one says the maiden has 
the dew of youth, — “But! ” cry two or three mothers 
in a breath, “ that other one, child, will never grow old. 
With her it will always be morning. That woman is 
going to last forever ; ha-a-a-a ! — even longer 1 ” 

There was one direction in which the widow evidently 
had the advantage ; you could see from the street or the 
opposite windows that she was a wise householder. On 
the day they moved into Number 19 she had been seen 
to enter in advance of all her other movables, carrying 
into the empty house a new broom, a looking-glass, and 


8o 


THE GRANDISSIMES, 


a silver coin. Every morning since, a little watching 
would have discovered her at the hour of sunrise sprink- 
ling water from her side casement, and her opposite 
neighbors often had occasion to notice that, sitting at 
her sewing by the front window, she never pricked her 
finger but she quickly ran it up behind her ear, and ther 
went on with her work. Would anybody but Josepf 
Frowenfeld ever have lived in and moved away from the 
two-story brick next them on the right and not have 
known of the existence of such a marvel ? 

“ Ha ! ” they said, she knows how to keep off bad 
luck, that Madame yonder. And the younger one 
seems not to like it. Girls think themselves so smart 
these days.” 

Ah, there was the knock again, right there on the 
street-door, as loud as if it had been given with a joint 
of sugar-cane ! 

The daughter’s hand, which had just resumed the 
needle, stood still in mid-course with the white thread 
half drawn. Aurore tiptoed slowly over the carpeted 
floor. There came a shuffling sound, and the corner 
of a folded white paper commenced appearing and 
disappearing under the door. She mounted a chair and 
peeped through that odd little jalousie which formerly 
was in almost all New Orleans street-doors; but th^ 
missive had meantime found its way across the sill, and 
she saw only the unpicturesque back of a departing 
errand-boy. But that was well. She had a pride, to 
maintain which — and a poverty, to conceal which — she 
felt to be necessary to her self-respect ; and this made her 
of necessity a trifle unsocial in her own castle. Do you 
suppose she was going to put on the face of having been 
born or married to this degraded condition of things ? 


A CALL FROM THE RENT-SPECTRE. 8 1 

Who knows ? — the knock might have been from ’Sieur 
Frowenfel’ — ha, ha ! He might be just silly enough to 
call so early ; or it might have been from that polissojt 
of a Grandissime, — which one didn’t matter, they were 
all detestable, — coming to collect the rent. That was 
her original fear ; or, worse still, it might have been, 
had it been softer, the knock of some possible lady- 
visitor. She had no intention of admitting any feminine 
eyes to detect this carefully covered up indigence. 
Besides, it was Monday. There is no sense in trifling 
with bad luck. The reception of Monday callers is a 
source of misfortune never known to fail, save in rare 
cases when good luck has already been secured by 
smearing the front walk or the banquette with Venetian 
red. 

Before the daughter could dart up and disengage 
herself from her work her mother had pounced upon the 
paper. She was standing and reading, her rich black 
lashes curtaining their downcast eyes, her infant waist 
and round, close-fitted, childish arms harmonizing 
prettily with her mock frown of infantile perplexity, and 
her long, limp robe heightening the grace of her posture, 
when the younger started from her seat with the air of 
determining not to be left at a disadvantage. 

But what is that on the dark eyelash ? With a sudden 
additional energy the daughter dashes the sewing and 
chair to right and left, bounds up, and in a moment has 
Aurore weeping in her embrace and has snatched the 
note from her hand. 

** Ah ! maman ! Ah ! ma ch^re mere ! ” 

The mother forced a laugh. She was not to be 
mothered by her daughter; so she made a dash at 
Clotilde’s uplifted hand to recover the note, which was 


THE GRANDISSIMES, 


S2 

unavailing. Immediately there arose in colonial French 
the loveliest of contentions, the issue of which was that 
the pair sat down side by side, like two sisters over one 
love-letter, and undertook to decipher the paper. It 
read as follows : 


*'New Orleans, 20 Feb’re, 1804. 

“ Madame Nancanou : I muss oblige to ass you for rent of that house 
whare you living, it is at number 19 Bienville street whare I do not re- 
ceived thos rent from you not since tree mons and I demand you this is 
mabe thirteen time. And I give to you notice of 19 das writen in Anglish as 
the new law requi. That witch the law make necessare only for 1 5 das, 
and when you not pay me those rent in 19 das till the tense of Marh I 
will rekes you to move out. That witch make me to be very sorry. I have 
the honor to remain, Madam, 

“ Your humble servant, 

“ H. Grandissime, 

Z. F.” 

There was a short French postscript on the opposite 
page signed only by M. Zenon Frangois, explaining 
that he, who had allowed them in the past to address 
him as their landlord and by his name, was but the 
landlord’s agent ; that the landlord was a far better- 
dressed man than he could afford to be ; that the writing 
opposite was a notice for them to quit the premises they 
had rented (not leased), or pay up ; that it gave the 
writer great pain to send it, although it was but the 
necessary legal form and he only an irresponsible drawer 
of an inadequate salary, with thirteen children to support ; 
and that he implored them to tear off and burn up this 
postscript immediately they had read it. 

“Ah, the miserable!” was all the comment made 
upon it as the two ladies addressed their energies to the 
previous English. They had never suspected him of 
being M. Grandissime. 


A CALL FROM THE RENT-SPECTRE. 83 

Their eyes dragged slowly and ineffectually along the 
lines to the signature. 

“ H. Grandissime ! Loog ad ’im ! ” cried the widow, 
with a sudden short laugh, that brought the tears after 
it like a wind-gust in a rose-tree. She held the letter 
out before them as if she was lifting something alive by 
the back of the neck, and to intensify her scorn spoke 
in the hated tongue prescribed by the new courts. 
“ Loog ad ’im ! dad ridge gen’leman 00 give so mudge 
money to de ’ozpill ! ” 

“Bud, mamany' said the daughter, laying her hand 
appeasingly upon her mother’s knee, '' ee do nod know 
’ow we is poor. 

“Ah!” retorted Aurore, ''par example! Non? 
Ee thingue we is ridge, eh ? Ligue his oncle, eh ? Ee 
thing so, too, eh ? ” She cast upon her daughter the 
look of burning scorn intended for Agricola Fusilier. 
“ You wan’ to tague the pard of dose Grandissime’ ? ” 

The daughter returned a look of agony. 

“ No,” she said, “ bud a man wad godd some ’ouses 
to rend, muz ee nod boun’ to ged ’is rend? ” 

“ Boun’ to ged — ah ! yez ee muz do ’is possible to ged 
’is rend. Oh ! certain/^^. Ee is ridge, bud ee need a 
lill money, bad, bad. Fo’ w’at ? ” The excited speaker 
rose to her feet under a sudden inspiration. “ TeneZy 
Mademoiselle!" She began to make great show of 
unfastening her dress. 

“ MaiSy comment f ” demanded the suffering daughter. 

“ Yez I ” continued Aurore, keeping up the demon- 
stration, “ you wand ’im to ’ave ’is rend so bad ! An* 
I godd honely my cloze ; so you juz tague diz to you’ 
fine gen’lemen, ’Sieur Honore Grandissime.” 

“ Ah-h-h-h I ” cried the martyr. 


84 


THE GRANDISSIMES, 


An’ you is righd,” persisted the tormentor, still 
unfastening ; but the daughter’s tears gushed forth, and 
the repentant tease threw herself upon her knees^ drew 
her child’s head into her bosom and wept afresh. 

Half an hour was passed in council ; at the end of 
which they stood beneath their lofty mantel-shelf, each 
with a foot on a brazen fire-dog, and no conclusion 
reached. 

“ Ah, my child ! ” — they had come to themselves now 
and were speaking in their peculiar French — “ if we had 
here in these hands but the tenth part of what your 
papa often played away in one night without once get- 
ting angry ! But we have not. Ah ! but your father 
was a fine fellow ; if he could have lived for you to know 
him ! So accomplished ! Ha, ha, ha ! I can never 
avoid laughing, when I remember him teaching me to 
speak English ; I used to enrage him so ! ” 

The daughter brought the conversation back to the 
subject of discussion. There were nineteen days yet 
allowed them. God knows — by the expiration of that 
time they might be able to pay. With the two music 
scholars whom she then had and three more whom she 
had some hope to get, she made bold to say they could 
pay the rent. 

“Ah, Clotilde, my child,” exclaimed Aurore, with 
sudden brightness, “ you don’t need a mask and costume 
to resemble your great-grandmother, the casket-girl I ” 
Aurore felt sure, on her part, that with the one em- 
broidery scholar then under her tutelage, and the three 
others who had declined to take lessons, they could 
easily pay the rent — and how kind it was of Monsieur, 
the aged father of that one embroidery scholar, to pro- 
cure those invitations to the ball ! The dear old man J 


A CALL FROM THE RENT-SPECTRE. 85 

He said he must see one more ball before he should 
die. 

Aurore looked so pretty in the reverie into which she 
fell that her daughter was content to admire her silently. 

Clotilde,” said the mother, presently looking up, 

do you remember the evening you treated me so ill ? 

The daughter smiled at the preposterous charge. 

I did not treat you ill.” 

** Yes, don’t you know — the evening you made me 
lose my purse ? ” 

Certainly, I know ! ” The daughter took her foot 
from the andiron ; her eyes lighted up aggressively. “ For 
losing your purse blame yourself. For the way you 
found it again — which was far worse — thank Palmyre. 
If you had not asked her to find it and shared the gold 
with her we could have returned with it to ’Sieur Frow- 
enfel’ ; but now we are ashamed to let him see us. I 
do not doubt he filled the purse.” 

He ? He never knew it was empty. It was 
Nobody who filled it. Palmyre says that Papa 
L^bat ” 

** Ha ! ” exclaimed Clotilde at this superstitious men- 
tion. 

The mother tossed her head and turned her back, 
swallowing the unendurable bitterness of being rebuked 
by her daughter. But the cloud hung over but a 
moment. 

“ Clotilde,” she said, a minute after, turning with a 
look of sun-bright resolve, “ I am going to see him.” 

‘‘ To see whom ? ” asked the other, looking back from 
the window, whither she had gone to recover from a re- 
actionary trembling. 

“ To whom, my child ? Why ” 


S6 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


** You do not expect mercy from Honors Grandis 
sime ? You would not ask it ? ” 

“ No. There is no mercy in the Grandissime blood ; 
but cannot I demand justice ? Ha ! it is justice that I 
shall demand ! 

And you will really go and see him ? ” 

You will see, Mademoiselle,” replied Aurore, drop- 
ping a broom with which she had begun to sweep up 
some spilled buttons. 

‘‘And I with you?” 

“ No ! To a counting-room ? To the presence of the 
chief of that detestable race ? No ! ” 

“ But you don’t know where his office is.” 

“ Anybody can tell me.” 

Preparation began at once. By and by 

“Clotilde.” 

Clotilde was stooping behind her mother, with a rib- 
bon between her lips, arranging a flounce. 

“M-m-m.” 

“You must not watch me go out of sight; do you 
hear ? * * But it is dangerous. I knew of a gentle- 

man who watched his wife go out of his sight and she 
never came back ! ” 

“ Hold still ! ” said Clotilde. 

“ But when my hand itches,” retorted Aurore in a 
high key, “haven’t I got to put it instantly into my 
pocket if I want the money to come there ! Well, 
then ! ” 

The daughter proposed to go to the kitchen and teP 
Alphonsina to put on her shoes. 

“ My child,” cried Aurore, “ you are crazy I Do you 
want Alphonsina to be seized for the rent ? ” 

“ But you cannot go alone — and on foot ! ” 


A CALL FROM THE RENT-SPECTRE. 87 

I must go alone ; and — can you lend me your car- 
riage ? Ah, you have none ? Certainly I must go alone 
and on foot if I am to say I cannot pay the rent. It is 
no indiscretion of mine. If anything happens to me it is 
M. Grandissime who is responsible.” 

Now she is ready for the adventurous errand. She 
darts to the mirror. The high-water marks are gone 
from her eyes. She wheels half around and looks over 
her shoulder. The flaring bonnet and loose ribbons 
gave her a more girlish look than ever. 

** Now which is the older, little old woman ? ” she chir- 
rups, and smites her daughter’s cheek softly with her 
palm. 

“ And you are not afraid to go alone ? ” 

No ; but remember ! look at that dog ! ” 

The brute sinks apologetically to the floor. Clotilde 
opens the street door, hands Aurore the note, Aurore 
lays a frantic kiss upon her lips, pressing it on tight sc 
as to get it again when she comes back, and — while Clo- 
tilde calls the cook to gather up the buttons and take 
away the broom, and while the cook, to make one trip 
of it, gathers the hound into her bosom and carries 
broom and dog out together — Aurore sallies forth, leav- 
ing Clotilde to resume her sewing and await the coming 
of a guitar scholar. 

“ It will keep her fully an hour,” thought the girl, far 
from imagining that Aurore had set about a little private 
business which she proposed to herself to accomplish 
before she even started in the direction of M. Grandis- 
sime’s counting -rooms. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


BEFORE SUNSET. 

In old times, most of the sidewalks of New Orleans 
not in the heart of town were only a rough, rank turf, 
lined on the side next the ditch with the gunwales of 
broken-up flat-boats — ugly, narrow, slippery objects. 
As Aurora — it sounds so much pleasanter to anglicize 
her name — as Aurora gained a corner where two of these 
gunwales met, she stopped and looked back to make 
sure that Clotilde was not watching her. That others 
had noticed her here and there she did not care ; that 
was something beauty would have to endure, and it only 
made her smile to herself. 

“ Everybody sees I am from the country — walking on 
the street without a waiting-maid.” 

A boy passed, hushing his whistle, and gazing at the 
lone lady until his turning neck could twist no farther. 
She was so dewy fresh ! After he had got across the 
street he turned to look again. Where could she have 
disappeared ? 

The only object to be seen on the corner from which 
she had vanished, was a small, yellow-washed house 
much like the one Aurora occupied, as it was like hun- 
dreds that then characterized and still characterize the 
town, only that now they are of brick instead of adobe. 
They showed in those days, even more than now, the 


BEFORE SUNSET. 


89 


wide contrast between their homely exteriors and the 
often elegant apartments within. However, in this 
house the front room was merely neat. The furniture 
was of rude, heavy pattern. Creole-made, and the walls 
were unadorned ; the day of cheap pictures had not 
come. The lofty bedstead which filled one corner was 
spread and hung with a blue stuff showing through a 
web of white needlework. The brazen feet of the chairs 
were brightly burnished, as were the brass mountings of 
the bedstead and the brass globes on the cold andirons. 
Curtains of blue and white hung at the single window. 
The floor, from habitual scrubbing with the common 
weed which politeness has to call Heleniiim autumnale ^ 
was stained a bright, clean yellow. On it were here and 
there in places, white mats woven of bleached palmetto- 
leaf. Such were the room’s appointments ; there was 
but one thing more, — a singular bit of fantastic carving, 
—a small table of dark mahogany supported on the >:p- 
ward-writhing images of three scaly serpents. 

Aurora sat down beside this table. A dwarf Congo 
woman, as black as soot, had ushered her in, and, hav- 
ing barred the door, had disappeared, and now the mis- 
tress of the house entered. 

February though it was, she was dressed — and looked 
comfortable — in white. That barbaric beauty which had 
begun to bud twenty years before was now in perfect 
bloom. The united grace and pride of her movement 
was inspiring but — what shall we say ? — feline ? It was 
a femininity without humanity, — something that made 
her with all her superbness, a creature that one would 
want to find chained. It was the woman who had re- 
ceived the gold from Frowenfeld — Palmyre Philosophe. 

Thw moment her eyes fell upon Aurora her whole ap- 


90 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


pearance changed. A girlish smile lighted up her facCj 
and as Aurora rose up reflecting it back, they simulta- 
neously clapped hands, laughed and advanced joyously 
toward each other, talking rapidly without regard to 
each other’s words. 

“ Sit down,” said Palmyre, in the plantation French of 
their childhood, as they shook hands. 

They took chairs and drew up face to face as close as 
they could come, then sighed and smiled a moment, and 
then looked grave and were silent. For in the nature 
of things, and notwithstanding the amusing familiarity 
common between Creole ladies and the menial class, the 
unprotected little widow should have had a very serious 
errand to bring her to the voudou’s house. 

“ Palmyre,” began the lady, in a sad tone. 

Momselle Aurore.” 

“ I want you to help me.” The former mistress not 
only cast her hands into her lap, lifted her eyes suppli- 
catingly and dropped them again, but actually locked her 
fingers to keep them from trembling. 

“ Momselle Aurore ” began Palmyre, solemnly. 

“ Now, I know what you are going to say — but it is 
of no use to say it ; do this much for me this one time 
and then I will let voudou alone as much as you wish — 
forever ! ” 

“You have not lost your purse again ? ” 

“ Ah ! foolishness, no.” 

Both laughed a little, the philosophe feebly, and Au- 
rora with an excited tremor. 

“Well?” demanded the quadroon, looking grave 
again. 

Aurora did not answer. 

“ Do you wish me to work a spell for you ?” 


BEFORE SUNSET, 


91 


The widow nodded, with her eyes cast down. 

Both sat quite still for some time ; then the philosophe 
gently drew the landlord’s letter from between Aurora’s 
hands. 

“What is this ? ” She could not read in any language. 

“ I must pay my rent within nineteen days.*’ 

“ Have you not paid it ? ” 

The delinquent shook her head. 

“ Where is the gold that came into your purse ? All 
gone ? ” 

“ For rice and potatoes,” said Aurora, and for the first 
time she uttered a genuine laugh, under that condition 
of mind which Latins usually substitute for fortitude. 
Palmyre laughed too, very properly. 

Another silence followed. The lady could not return 
the quadroon’s searching gaze. 

“ Momselle Aurore,” suddenly said Palmyre, “ you 
want me to work a spell for something else.” 

Aurora started, looked up for an instant in a fright- 
ened way, and then dropped her eyes and let her head 
droop, murmuring : 

“ No, I do not.” 

Palmyre fixed a long look upon her former mistress. 
She saw that though Aurora might be distressed about 
the rent, there was something else, — a deeper feeling, 
impelling her upon a course the very thought of which 
drove the color from her lips and made her trem- 
ble. 

“You are wearing red,” said the philosophe. 

Aurora’s hand went nervously to the red ribbon about 
her neck. 

“ It is an accident ; I had nothing else convenient.” 

“ Miche Agoussou loves red,” persisted Palmyre. 


92 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


(Monsieur Agoussou is the demon upon whom the vou 
dous call in matters of love.) 

The color that came into Aurora’s cheek ought to 
have suited Monsieur precisely. 

“ It is an accident,” she feebly insisted. 

“Well,” presently said Palmyre, with a pretence of 
abandoning her impression, “ then you want me to work 
you a spell for money, do you ? ” 

Aurora nodded, while she still avoided the quadroon’s 
glance. 

“I know better,” thought the philosophe. “You 
shall have the sort you want.” 

The widow stole an upward glance. 

“ Oh ! ” said Palmyre, with the manner of one mak- 
ing a decided digression, “ I have been wanting to ask 
you something. That evening at the pharmacy — was 
there a tall handsome gentleman standing by the coun- 
ter.” 

“ He was standing on the other side,” 

“ Did you see his face ? ” 

“ No ; his back was turned.” 

“ Momselle Aurore,” said Palmyre, dropping her 
elbows upon her knees and taking the lady’s hand as if 
the better to secure the truth, “ was that the gentleman 
you met at the ball ? ” 

“My faith!” said Aurora, stretching her eyebrows 
upward. “ I did not think to look. Who was it ? ” 

But Palmyre Philosophe was not going to give more 
than she got, even to her old-time Momselle ; she 
merely straightened back into her chair with an amiable 
face. 

“Who do you think he is?” persisted Aurora, after 
a pause, smiling downward and toying with her rings. 


BEFORE SUNSET. 


93 


The quadroon shrugged. 

They both sat in reverie for a moment— a long mo« 
ment for such sprightly natures — and Palmyre’s mien 
took on a professional gravity. She presently pushed 
the landlord's letter under the lady’s hands as they lay 
clasped in her lap, and a moment after drew Aurora’s 
glance with her large, strong eyes and asked : 

“ What shall we do ? ” 

The lady immediately looked startled and alarmed 
and again dropped her eyes in silence. The quadroon 
had to speak again. 

We will burn a candle.*^ 

Aurora trembled. 

“ No,” she succeeded in saying. 

*‘Yes,” said Palmyre, “you must get your rent 
money.” But the charm which she was meditating had 
no reference to rent money. “ She knows that,” thought 
the votidou. 

As she rose and called her Congo slave-woman, 
Aurora made as if to protest further; but utterance 
failed her. She clenched her hands and prayed to Fate 
for Clotilde to come and lead her away as she had done 
at the apothecary’s. And well she might. 

The articles brought in by the servant were simply a 
little pound-cake and cordial, a tumbler half-filled with 
the sirop naturelle of the sugar-cane, and a small piece 
of candle of the kind made from the fragrant green wax 
of the candleberry myrtle. These were set upon the 
small table, the bit of candle standing, lighted, in the 
tumbler of sirup, the cake on a plate, the cordial in a 
wine-glass. This feeble child’s play was all ; except 
that as Palmyre closed out all daylight from the room 
and received the offering of silver that “ paid the floor ” 


94 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


and averted guillons (interferences of outside impsjj 
Aurora, — alas ! alas ! — went down upon her knees with 
her gaze fixed upon the candle’s flame, and silently 
called on Assonquer (the imp of good fortune) to cast 
his snare in her behalf around the mind and heart of 
• — she knew not whom. 

By and by her lips, which had moved at first, were still 
and she only watched the burning wax. When the 
flame rose clear and long it was a sign that Assonquer 
was enlisted in the coveted endeavor. When the wick 
sputtered, the devotee trembled in fear of failure. Its 
charred end curled down and twisted away from her 
and her heart sank ; but the tall figure of Palmyre for a 
moment came between, the wick was snuffed, the flame 
tapered up again and for a long time burned a bright, 
tremulous cone. Again the wick turned down, but this 
time toward her, — a propitious omen, — and suddenly 
fell through the expended wax and went out in the sirup. 

The daylight, as Palmyre let it once more into the 
apartment, showed Aurora sadly agitated. In evidence 
of the innocence of her fluttering heart, guilt, at least 
for the moment, lay on it, an appalling burden. 

“ That is all, Palmyre, is it not ? I am sure that is all 
— it must be all. I cannot stay any longer. I wish I 
was with Clotilde ; I have stayed too long.” 

*‘Yes; all for the present,” replied the quadroon. 

Here, here is some charmed basil ; hold it between 

your lips as you walk 

But I am going to my landlord’s office ! ” 

Office ? Nobody is at his office now ; it is too late. 
You would find that your landlord had gone to dinner, 
I will tell you, though, where you must go. P'irst go 
home ; eat your dinner ; and this evening [the Creoles 


BE f ORE SUNSET. 


% 


never say afternoon], about a half-hour before sunset, 
walk down Royale to the lower corner of the Place 
d’Armes, pass entirely around the square and return up 
Royale. Never look behind until you get into your 
house again.” 

Aurora blushed with shame. 

“ Alone ? ” she exclaimed, quite unnerved and trem- 
ulous. 

“You will seem to be alone ; but I will follow behind 
you when you pass here. Nothing shall hurt you. It 
you do that, the charm will certainly work ; if you do 
not ” 

The quadroon’s intentions were good. She was deter- 
mined to see who it was that could so infatuate her dear 
little Momselle ; and, as on such an evening as the 
present afternoon promised to merge into, all New 
Orleans promenaded on the Place d’Armes and the levee, 
her charm was a very practical one. 

“ And that will bring the money, will it ? '’ asked 
Aurora. 

“ It will bring anything you want.” 

“ Possible ? ” 

“ These things that you want, Momselle Aurore, are 
easy to bring. You have no charms working against 
you. But, oh ! I wish to God I could work the curse 
/want to work ! ” The woman’s eyes blazed, her bosom 
heaved, she lifted her clenched hand above her head and 
looked upward, crying : “I would give this right hand 
off at the wrist to catch Agricola Fusilier where I could 
work him a curse ! But I shall ; I shall some day be 
revenged ! ” She pitched her voice still higher. “ I 
cannot die till I have been ! There is nothing that 
could kill me, I want my revenge so bad ! ” As suddenly 


96 


THE GRAHDISSIMES, 


as she had broken out, she hushed, unbarred the door, 
and with a stern farewell smile saw Aurora turn home- 
ward. 

Give me something to eat, ckerie” cried the ex- 
hausted lady, dropping into Clotilde’s chair and trying 
to die. 

Ah ! maman^ what makes you look so sick ? ” 
Aurora waved her hand contemptuously and gasped. 

** Did you see him ? What kept you so long-so 
long ? " 

Ask me nothing ; I am so enraged with disappoint- 
ment. He was gone to dinner ! ” 

“ Ah ! my poor mother ! ” 

“ And I must go back as soon as I can take a little 
ieste, I am determined to see him this very day,” 

Ah ! my poor mother ! ” 


CHAPTER XV, 


ROLLED IN THE DUST. 

‘‘No, Frowenfeld/’ said little Doctor Keene, speak- 
ing for the after-dinner loungers, “ you must take a little 
human advice. Go, get the air on the Plaza. We will 
keep shop for you. Stay as long as you like and come 
home in any condition you think best.” And Joseph, 
tormented into this course, put on his hat and went out. 

“ Hard to move as a cow in the moonlight,” con- 
tinued Doctor Keene, “ and knows just about as much 
of the world. He wasn’t aware, until I told him to-day, 
that there are two Honors Grandissimes.” [Laughter.] 

“ Why did you tell him ? ” 

“ I didn’t give him anything but the bare fact. I 
want to see how long it will take him to find out the 
rest.” 

The Place d’Armes offered amusement to every one 
else rather than to the immigrant. The family relation, 
the most noticeable feature of its well-pleased groups, 
was to him too painful a reminder of his late losses, and, 
after an honest endeavor to flutter out of the inner 
twilight of himself into the outer glare of a moving world, 
he had given up the effort and had passed beyond the 
square and seated himself upon a rude bench which 
tncircled the trunk of a willow on the levee. 


98 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


The negress, who, resting near by with a tray oi 
cakes before her, has been for some time contemplating 
the three-quarter face of her unconscious neighbor, 
drops her head at last with a small, Ethiopian, feminine 
laugh. It is a self-confession that, pleasant as the study 
of his countenance is, to resolve that study into know- 
ledge is beyond her powers ; and very pardonably so it 
is, she being but a marchande des gdteaux (an itinerant 
cake-vender), and he, she concludes, a man of parts. 
There is a purpose, too, as well as an admission, in the 
laugh. She would like to engage him in conversation. 
But he does not notice. Little supposing he is the 
object of even a cake-merchant’s attention, he is lost in 
idle meditation. 

One would guess his age to be as much as twenty-six. 
His face is beardless, of course, like almost everybody s 
around him, and of a German kind of seriousness. A 
certain diffidence in his look may tend to render him 
unattractive to careless eyes, the more so since he has a 
slight appearance of self-neglect. On a second glance, 
his refinement shows out more distinctly, and one also 
sees that he is not shabby. The little that seems lack- 
ing is woman’s care, the brush of attentive fingers here 
and there, the turning of a fold in the high-collared coat, 
and a mere touch on the neckerchief and shirt-frill. He 
has a decidedly good forehead. His blue eyes, while 
they are both strong and modest, are noticeable, too, as 
betraying fatigue, and the shade of gravity in them is 
deepened by a certain worn look of excess — in books ; 
a most unusual look in New Orleans in those days, and 
pointedly out of keeping with the scene which was 
absorbing his attention. 

You might mistake the time for mid-May. Before the 


ROLLED IN THE DUST. 


99 


View lies the Place d’Armes in its green-breasted uniform 
of new spring grass crossed diagonally with white shell 
walks for facings, and dotted with the Hite of the city for 
decorations. Over the line of shade-trees which marks 
its farther boundary, the white-topped twin turrets of 
St. Louis Cathedral look across it and beyond the bared 
site of the removed battery (built by the busy Carondelet 
to protect Louisiana from herself and Kentucky, and 
razed by his immediate successors) and out upon the 
Mississippi, the color of whose surface is beginning to 
change with the changing sky of this beautiful and 
now departing day. A breeze, which is almost early 
June, and which has been hovering over the bosom of 
the great river and above the turf-covered levee, ceases, 
as if it sank exhausted under its burden of spring odors, 
and in the profound calm the cathedral bell strikes the 
sunset hour. From its neighboring garden, the convent 
of the Ursulines responds in a tone of devoutness, while 
from the parapet of the less pious little Fort St. Charles, 
the evening gun sends a solemn ejaculation rumbling 
down the “coast”; a drum rolls, the air rises again 
from the water like a flock of birds, and many in the 
square and on the levee’s crown turn and accept its 
gentle blowing. Rising over the levee willows, and 
sinking into the streets, — which are lower than the 
water, — it flutters among the balconies and in and out 
of dim Spanish arcades, and finally drifts away toward 
that part of the sky where the sun is sinking behind the 
low, unbroken line of forest. There is such seduction 
in the evening air, such sweetness of flowers on its every 
motion, such lack of cold, or heat, or dust, or wet, that 
the people have no heart to stay in-doors ; nor is there 
any reason why they should. The levee road is dotted 


lOO 


THE GRANDISSIME^, 


with horsemen, and the willow avenue on the levee’s 
crown, the whole short mile between Terre aux Bceufs 
gate on the right and Tchoupitoulas gate on the left, is 
bright with promenaders, although the hour is brief and 
there will be no twilight ; for, so far from being May, it 
is merely that same nineteenth of which we have 
already spoken, — the nineteenth of Louisiana’s delicious 
February. 

Among the throng were many whose names were 
going to be written large in history. There was Casa 
Calvo, — Sebastian de Casa Calvo de la Puerta y 
O’Farril, Marquis of Casa Calvo, — a man then at the 
fine age of fifty-three, elegant, fascinating, perfect in 
Spanish courtesy and Spanish diplomacy, rolling by in 
a showy equipage surrounded by a clanking body-guard 
of the Catholic king’s cavalry. There was young Daniel 
Clark, already beginning to amass those riches which an 
age of litigation has not to this day consumed ; it was he 
whom the French colonial prefect, Laussat, in a late 
letter to France, had extolled as a man whose ^‘talents 
for intrigue were carried to a rare degree of excellence.” 
There was Laussat himself, in the flower of his years, 
sour with pride, conscious of great official insignificance 
and full of petty spites — he yet tarried in a land where 
his beautiful wife was the ‘‘ model of taste.” There was 
that convivial old fox, Wilkinson, who had plotted for 
years with Miro and did not sell himself and his country 
to Spain because — as we now say — he found he could 
do better ; ” who modestly confessed himself in a 
traitor’s letter to the Spanish king as a man whose 
head may err, but whose heart cannot deceive ! ” and 
who brought Governor Gayoso to an early death-bed 
by simply out-drinking him. There also was Edward 


ROLLED m THE DUST, 


101 


Livingston, attorney-at-law, inseparably joined to the 
mention of the famous Batture cases — though that was 
later. There also was that terror of colonial peculators, 
the old ex-Intendant Morales, who, having quarrelled 
with every governor of Louisiana he ever saw, was now 
snarling at Casa Calvo from force of habit. 

And the Creoles — the Knickerbockers of Louisiana — 
but time would fail us. The Villeres and Destrehans — 
patriots and patriots’ sons ; the De la Chaise family in 
mourning for young Auguste La Chaise of Kentuckian- 
Louisianian-San Domingan history; the Livaudaises, 
ptre et filsy of Haunted House fame, descendants of the 
first pilot of the Belize ; the pirate brothers Lafitte, 
moving among the best ; Marigny de Mandeville, after- 
ward the marquis member of Congress ; the Davezacs, 
the Mossys, the Boulignys, the Labatuts, the Bringiers, 
the De Trudeaus, the De Macartys, the De la Houssayes, 
the De Lavilleboeuvres, the Grandpres, the Forstalls; 
and the proselyted Creoles : Etienne de Bor^ (he was 
the father of all such as handle the sugar-kettle) ; old 
man Pitot, who became mayor ; Madame Pontalba and 
her unsuccessful suitor, John McDonough; the three 
Girods, the two Graviers, or the lone Julian Poydras, 
godfather of orphan girls. Besides these, and among 
them as shining fractions of the community, the numerous 
representatives of the not only noble, but noticeable and 
ubiquitous, family of Grandissime : Grandissimes simple 
and Grandissimes compound ; Brahmins, Mandarins and 
Fusiliers. One, ’Polyte by name, a light, gay fellow, 
with classic features, hair turning gray, is standing and 
conversing with this group here by the mock-cannon 
inclosure of the grounds. Another, his cousin, Charlie 
Mandarin, a tall, very slender, bronzed gentleman in a 


102 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


flannel hunting-shirt and buckskin leggins, is walking, 
in moccasins, with a sweet lady in whose tasteful attire 
feminine scrutiny, but such only, might detect economy, 
but whose marked beauty of yesterday is retreating 
and re-appearing in the flock of children who are noisily 
running round and round them, nominally in the care 
of three fat and venerable black nurses. Another, yon- 
der, Theophile Grandissime, is whipping his stockings 
with his cane, a lithe youngster in the height of the 
fashion (be it understood the fashion in New Orleans was 
five years or so behind Paris), with a joyous, noble face, 
a merry tongue and giddy laugh, and a confession of ex- 
periences which these pages, fortunately for their moral 
tone, need not recount. All these were there and many 
others. 

This throng, shifting like the fragments of colored 
glass in the kaleidoscope, had its far-away interest to 
the contemplative Joseph. To them he was of little 
interest, or none. Of the many passers, scarcely an 
occasional one greeted him, and such only with an ex- 
tremly polite and silent dignity which seemed to him 
like saying something of this sort : “ Most noble alien, 
give you good-day — stay where you are. Profoundly 
yours ” 

Two men came through the Place d’Armes on con- 
spicuously fine horses. One it is not necessary to 
describe. The other, a man of perhaps thirty-three or 
thirty-four years of age, was extremely handsome and 
well dressed, the martial fashion of the day showing his 
tall and finely knit figure to much advantage. He sat 
his horse with an uncommon grace, and, as he rode 
beside his companion, spoke and gave ear by turns with 
an easy dignity sufficient of itself to have attracted 


ROLLED IN THE DUST, 


103 


oopular observation. It was the apothecary’s unknown 
friend. Frowenfeld noticed them while they were yet 
in the middle of the grounds. He could hardly have 
failed to do so, for some one close beside his bench in 
undoubted allusion to one of the approaching figures ex- 
claimed : 

Here comes Honore Grandissime.’* 

Moreover, at that moment there was a slight unwonted 
stir on the Place d’Armes. It began at the farther cor- 
ner of the square, hard by the Principal, and spread so 
quickly through the groups near about, that in a minute 
the entire company were quietly made aware of some- 
thing going notably wrong in their immediate presence. 
There was no running to see it. There seemed to be 
not so much as any verbal communication of the matter 
from mouth to mouth. Rather a consciousness appeared 
to catch noiselessly from one to another as the knowledge 
of human intrusion comes to groups of deer in a park. 
There was the same elevating of the head here and there, 
the same rounding of beautiful eyes. Some stared, 
others slowly approached, while others turned and 
moved away ; but a common indignation was in the 
breast of that thing dreadful everywhere, but terrible in 
Louisiana, the Majority. For there, in the presence of 
those good citizens, before the eyes of the proudest and 
fairest mothers and daughters of New Orleans, glaringly, 
on the open Plaza, the Creole whom Joseph had met by 
the graves in the field, Honore Grandissime, the utter- 
most flower on the topmost branch of the tallest family 
tree ever transplanted from France to Louisiana, 
Honore, — the worshiped, the magnificent, — in the broad 
light of the sun’s going down, rode side by side with 
the Yankee governor and was not ashamed! 


104 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


Joseph, on his bench, sat contemplating the two parties 
to this scandal as they came toward him. Their horses’ 
flanks were damp from some pleasant gallop, but their 
present gait was the soft, mettlesome movement of 
animals who will even submit to walk if their masters 
insist. As they wheeled out of the broad diagonal path 
that crossed the square, and turned toward him in the 
highway, he fancied that the Creole observed him. He 
was not mistaken. As they seemed about to pass the 
spot where he sat, M. Grandissime interrupted the 
governor with a word and turning his horse’s head, rode 
up to the bench, lifting his hat as he came. 

Good-evening, Mr. Frowenfeld.” 

Joseph, looking brighter than when he sat unaccosted, 
rose and blushed. 

“ Mr. Frowenfeld, you know my uncle very well, I 
believe — Agricole Fusilier — long beard ? ” 

Oh ! yes, sir, certainly.” 

‘‘Well, Mr. Frowenfeld, I shall be much obliged if 
you will tell him — that is, should you meet him this 
evening — that I wish to see him. If you will be so 
kind ? ” 

Oh ! yes, sir, certainly.” 

Frowenfeld’s diffidence made itself evident in this 
reiterated phrase. 

“I do not know that you will see him, but if you 
should, you know ” 

“ Oh, certainly, sir ! ” 

The two paused a single instant, exchanging a smile 
of amiable reminder from the horseman and of bashful 
but pleased acknowledgment from the one who saw his 
precepts being reduced to practice. 

“ Well, good-evening, Mr. Frowenfeld.” 


ROLLED IN THE DUST. IO5 

M. Grandissime lifted his hat and turned. Frowenfeld 
sat down. 

‘‘ Bou zoUy MiM Honors ! ” called the marchande. 

** Comment to Clemencef'" 

The merchant waved his hand as he rode away with 
his companion. 

Beau Miche'y said the marchande y catching 
Joseph's eye. 

He smiled his ignorance and shook his head. 

“ Dass one fine gen’leman,” she repeated. Mo 
pdle' AngUy* she added with a chuckle. 

‘‘ You know him ? ” 

** Oh ! yass, sah ; Mawse Honore knows me, yass. 
All de gen’lemens knows me. I sell de calas ; maw- 
nin's sell calaSy evenin’s sell zinzer-cake. You know 
me " (a fact which Joseph had all along been aware 
of). ** Dat me w’at pass in rue Royale ev’y mawnin’ 
hoirin’ ‘ Bd calas touts chaudSy an’ singin’ ; don’t you 
know ? " 

The enthusiasm of an artist overcame any timidity she 
might have been supposed to possess, and, waiving the 
formality of an invitation, she began, to Frowenfeld’s con- 
sternation, to sing, in a loud, nasal voice. 

But the performance, long familiar, attracted no pub- 
lic attention, and he for whose special delight it was in- 
tended had taken an attitude of disclaimer and was again 
contemplating the quiet groups of the Place d’ Armes and 
the pleasant hurry of the levee road. 

** Don’t you know ? ” persisted the woman. Yass, 
sah, dass me; I’s Clemence.” 

But Frowenfeld was looking another way. 

You know my boy,” suddenly said she. 

Frowenfeld looked at her. 


5 


ThE GkANDISSlMES. 


1 o6 

** Yass, sah. Dat boy w’at bring you de box of hasi^ 
lie lass Chrismus ; dass my boy.” 

She straightened her cakes on the tray and made some 
changes in their arrangement that possibly were impor- 
tant. 

I learned to speak English in Fijinny. Bawn dah.’* 

She looked steadily into the apothecary’s absorbed 
countenance for a full minute, then let her eyes wander 
down the highway. The human tide was turning city- 
ward. Presently she spoke again. 

“ Folks cornin’ home a’ready, yass.” 

Her hearer looked down the road. 

Suddenly a voice that, once heard, was always known, 
— deep and pompous, as if a lion roared, — sounded so 
close behind him as to startle him half from his seat. 

Is this a corporeal man, or must I doubt my eyes? 
Hah ! Professor Frowenfeld ! ” it said. 

“ Mr. Fusilier ! ” exclaimed Frowenfeld in a subdued 
voice, while he blushed again and looked at the new- 
comer with that sort of awe which children experience 
in a menagerie. 

“ Citizen Fusilier,” said the lion. 

Agricola indulged to excess the grim hypocrisy of 
brandishing the catch-words of new-fangled reforms ; 
they served to spice a breath that was strong with the 
praise of the “ superior liberties of Europe,” — those old, 
cast-iron tyrannies to get rid of which America was set- 
tled. 

Frowenfeld smiled amusedly and apologetically at the 
same moment. 

“ I am glad to meet you. I 

He was going on to give Honors Grandissime’s mes 
sage, but was interrupted. 


ROLLED IN THE DUST. IO7 

** My young friend,” rumbled the old man in his 
deepest key, smiling emotionally and holding and sol- 
emnly continuing to shake Joseph’s hand, “ I am sure 
you are. You ought to thank God that you have my 
acquaintance.” 

Frowenfeld colored to the temples. 

“ I must acknowledge ” he began. 

“Ah!” growled the lion, “your beautiful modesty 
leads you to misconstrue me, sir. You pay my judg- 
ment no compliment. I know your worth, sir ; I merely 
meant, sir, that in me — poor, humble me — you have se- 
cured a sympathizer in your tastes and plans. Agricola 
Fusilier, sir, is not a cock on a dunghill, to find a jewel 
and then scratch it aside.” 

The smile of diffidence, but not the flush, passed from 
the young man’s face, and he sat down forcibly. 

“ You jest,” he said. 

The reply was a ^majestic growl. 

“I never The speaker half sat down, then 

straightened up again. “ Ah, the Marquis of Casa 
Calvo ! — I must bow to him, though an honest man’s 
bow is more than he deserves.” 

“ More than he deserves?” was Frowenfeld’s query. 

“ More than he deserves ! ” was the response. 

“ What has he done ? I have never heard ” 

The denunciator turned upon Frowenfeld his most 
royal frown, and retorted with a question which still 
grows wild in Louisiana : 

“ What ” — he seemed to shake his mane — “ what has 
he not done, sir?” and then he withdrew his frown 
slowly, as if to add, “You’ll be careful next time how 
you cast doubt upon a public official’s guilt.” 

The marquis’s cavalcade came briskly jingling by. Fra 


io8 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


wenfeld saw within the carriage two men, one in citizen's 
dress, the other in a brilliant uniform. The latter leaned 
forward, and, with a cordiality which struck the young 
spectator as delightful, bowed. The immigrant glanced 
at Citizen Fusilier, expecting to see the greeting returned 
with great haughtiness ; instead of which that person 
uncovered his leonine head, and, with a solemn sweep 
of his cocked hat, bowed half his length. Nay, he more 
than bowed, he bowed down — so that the action hurt 
Frowenfeld from head to foot. 

What large gentleman was that sitting on the other 
side ? ” asked the young man, as his companion sat down 
with the air of having finished an oration. 

** No gentleman at all ! ” thundered the citizen. 
** That fellow ” (beetling frown), that fellow is Edward 
Livingston.” 

“ The great lawyer ? ” 

The great villain ! ” 

Frowenfeld himself frowned. 

The old man laid a hand upon his junior’s shoulder 
and growled benignantly : 

“ My young friend, your displeasure delights me ! ” 

The patience with which Frowenfeld was bearing all 
this forced a chuckle and shake of the head from the 
marchande. 

Citizen Fusilier went on speaking in a manner that 
might be construed either as address or soliloquy, gesti- 
culating much and occasionally letting out a fervent word 
that made passers look around and Joseph inwardly 
wince. With eyes closed and hands folded on the top 
of the knotted staff which he carried but never used, he 
delivered an apostrophe to the “ spotless soul of youth,” 
enticed by the “ spirit of adventure ” to “ launch away 


ROLLED IN Tf/E DUST. 


109 


upon the unploughed sea of the future ! ” He lifted one 
nand and smote the back of the other solemnly, once, 
twice, and again, nodding his head faintly several times 
without opening his eyes, as who should say, “ Very 
impressive ; go on,” and so resumed ; spoke of this spot- 
less soul of youth searching under unknown latitudes for 
the “ sunken treasures of experience ” ; indulged, as the 
reporters of our day would say, in “many beautiful 
flights of rhetoric,” and finally depicted the loathing 
with which the spotless soul of youth “ recoils ! ” — suit- 
ing the action to the word so emphatically as to make a 
pretty little boy who stood gaping at him start back — 
“ on encountering in the holy chambers of public office the 
vultures hatched in the nests of ambition and avarice ! ” 

Three or four persons lingered carelessly near by with 
ears wide open. Frowenfeld felt that he must bring this 
to an end, and, like any young person who has learned 
neither deceit nor disrespect to seniors, he attempted tc 
reason it down. 

“ You do not think many of our public men are dis 
honest ! ” 

“ Sir ! ” replied the rhetorician, with a patronizing 
smile, “ h-you must be thinking of France ! ” 

“ No, sir ; of Louisiana.” 

“ Louisiana ! Dishonest ? All, sir, all. They are all 
as corrupt as Olympus, sir ! ” 

“ Well,” said Frowenfeld, with more feeling than was 
called for, “ there is one who, I feel sure, is pure. I 
know it by his face ! ” 

The old man gave a look of stern interrogation. 

“ Governor Claiborne.” 

“ Ye e-e g-hods ! Claiborne ! Claiborne J Why, he 
is a Yankee ! ” 


no 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


The lion glowered over the lamb like a thunder-cloud 
“ He is a Virginian,” said Frowenfeld. 

“ He is an American, and no American can be honest. ” 
“ You are prejudiced,” exclaimed the young man. 
Citizen Fusilier made himself larger. 

What is prejudice ? I do not know.” 

“lam an American myself,” said Frowenfeld, rising 
up with his face burning. 

The citizen rose up also, but unruffled. 

“ My beloved young friend,” laying his hand heavily 
upon the other’s shoulder, “you are not. You were 
merely born in America.” 

But Frowenfeld was not appeased. 

“ Hear me through,” persisted the flatterer. “You 
were merely born in America. I, too, was born in Ame- 
rica ; but will any man responsible for his opinion mis- 
take me — Agricola Fusilier — for an American ? ” 

He clutched his cane in the middle and glared around, 
but no person seemed to be making the mistake to 
which he so scornfully alluded, and he was about to 
speak again when an outcry of alarm coming simultane- 
ously from Joseph and the marchande directed his atten- 
tion to a lady in danger. 

The scene, as afterward recalled to the mind of the un- 
American citizen, included the figures of his nephew and 
the new governor returning up the road at a canter ; 
but, at the time, he knew only that a lady of unmistaka- 
ble gentility, her back toward him, had just gathered 
her robes and started to cross the road, when there was 
a general cry of warning, and the marchande cried 
garde choual I ” while the lady leaped directly into the 
danger and his nephew’s horse knocked her to the 
earth ! 


ROLLED IN THE DUST. 


Ill 


Though there was a rush to the rescue from every 
direction, she was on her feet before any one could reach 
her, her lips compressed, nostrils dilated, cheek burning, 
and eyes flashing a lady’s wrath upon a dismounted 
horseman. It was the governor. As the crowd had 
rushed in, the startled horses, from whom the two riders 
had instantly leaped, drew violently back, jerking their 
masters with them and leaving only the governor in 
range of the lady’s angry eye. 

“ Mademoiselle ! ” he cried, striving to reach her. 

She pointed him in gasping indignation to his empty 
saddle, and, as the crowd farther separated them, waved 
away all permission to apologize and turned her back. 

Hah! ” cried the crowd, echoing her humor. 

“Lady,” interposed the governor, “do not drive us 
to the rudeness of leaving ” 

** Animal, vous /** cried half a dozen, and the lady 
gave him such a look of scorn that he did not finish his 
sentence. 

“ Open the way, there,” called a voice in French. 

It was Honors Grandissime. But just then he saw 
that the lady found the best of protectors, and the two 
horsemen, having no choice, remounted and rode away. 
As they did so, M. Grandissime called something hur- 
riedly to Frowenfeld, on whose arm the lady hung, con- 
cerning the care of her ; but his words w'ere lost in the 
short yell of derision sent after himself and his compan- 
ion by the crowd. 

Old Agricola, meanwhile, was having a trouble of his 
own. He had followed Joseph’s wake as he pushed 
through the throng ; but as the lady turned her face he 
wheeled abruptly away. This brought again in view 
the bench he had just left, whereupon he, in turn, cried 


II2 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


out, and, dashing through all obstructions, rushed back 
to it, lifting his ugly staff as he went and flourishing it 
in the face of Palmyre Philosophe. 

She stood beside the seat with the smile of one foiled 
and intensely conscious of peril, but neither frightened 
nor suppliant, holding back with her eyes the execution 
of Agricola’s threat against her life. 

Presently she drew a short step backward, then another, 
then a third, and then turned and moved away down 
the avenue of willows, followed for a few steps by the 
lion and by the laughing comment of the marchande , 
who stood looking after them with her tray balanced on 
her head. 

“ Yuy ya ! ye connais voudoti bien ! ” * 

The old man turned to rejoin his companion. The 
day was rapidly giving place to night and the people 
were withdrawing to their homes. He crossed the 
levee, passed through the Place d’Armes and on into 
the city without meeting the object of his search. For 
Joseph and the lady had hurried off together. 

As the populace floated away in knots of three, four 
and five, those who had witnessed mademoiselle’s (?) 
mishap told it to those who had not ; explaining that it 
was the accursed Yankee governor who had designedly 
driven his horse at his utmost speed against the fair vic- 
tim (some of them butted against their hearers by way 
of illustration) ; that the fiend had then maliciously 
laughed; that this was all the Yankees came to New 
Orleans for, and that there was an understanding among 
them — “ Understanding, indeed ! ” exclaimed one, 
They have instructions from the President ! ” — that 


* “ They’re up in the voudou arts,' 


ROLLED IN THE DUST. 


II3 

unprotected ladies should be run down wherever over- 
taken. If you didn’t believe it you could ask the ty- 
rant, Claiborne, himself ; he made no secret of it. One 
or two — but they were considered by others extrava- 
gant — testified that, as the lady fell, they had seen his 
face distorted with a horrid delight, and had heard him 
cry : “ Daz de way to knog them ! ” 

But how came a lady to be out on the levee, at sun 
set, on foot and alone ? ” asked a citizen, and another 
replied — both using the French of the late province: 

“As for being on foot” — a shrug. “But she was 
not alone ; she had a milatraisse behind her.” 

“Ah! so; that was well.” 

“ But — ha, ha 1 — the milatraisse ^ seeing her mistress 
out of danger, takes the opportunity to try to bring the 
curse upon Agricola Fusilier by sitting down where he 
had just risen up, and had to get away from him as 
quickly as possible to save her own skull.” 

“ And left the lady ? ” 

“Yes; and who took her to her home at last, but 
Frowenfeld, the apothecary ! ” 

“ Ho, ho 1 the astrologer I We ought to hang that 
fellow.” 

“With his books tied to his feet,” suggested a third 
citizen. “ It is no more than we owe to the community 
to go and smash his show-window. He had better be- 
have himself. Come, gentlemen, a little taffia will do 
us good. When shall we ever get through these excit» 
ing times ? ” 


CHAPTER XVI. 


STARLIGHT IN THE RUE CHARTRES. 

“ Oh ! M’sieur Frowenfer, tague me ad home ! ” 

It was Aurora, who caught the apothecary’s arm ve- 
hemently in both her hands with a look of beautiful 
terror. And whatever Joseph’s astronomy might have 
previously taught him to the contrary, he knew by his 
senses that the earth thereupon turned entirely over 
three times in two seconds. 

His confused response, though unintelligible, an- 
swered all purposes, as the lady found herself the next 
moment hurrying across the Place d’Armes close to his 
side, and as they by-and-by passed its farther limits she 
began to be conscious that she was clinging to her pro- 
tector as though she would climb up and hide under his 
elbow. As they turned up the rue Chartres she broke 
the silence. 

Oh !-h ! ” — breathlessly, — ’h ! — M’sieur Frowenf 
— you walkin’ so faz ! ” 

‘‘ Oh ! ” echoed Frowenfeld, I did not know what 
I was doing.” 

“ Ha, ha, ha,” laughed the lady, me, too, juz de 
sem lag you ! attendez ; wait.” 

They halted ; a moment’s deft manipulation of a veil 
turned it into a wrapping for her neck. 

“ ’Sieur Frowenfel’, oo dad man was ? You know ’ im ? ” 


STARLIGHT IN THE RUE CHARTRES. IIS 

She returned her hand to Frowenfeld’s arm and they 
moved on. 

‘‘The one who spoke to you, or — you know the one 
who got near enough to apologize is not the one whose 
horse struck you ! ” 

“ I din know. But oo dad odder one ? I saw h-only 
’is back, bud I thing it is de sem ” 

She identified it with the back that was turned to her 
during her last visit to Frowenfeld’s shop ; but finding 
herself about to mention a matter so nearly connected 
with the purse of gold, she checked herself ; but Frow- 
enfeld, eager to say a good word for his acquaintance, 
ventured to extol his character while he concealed his 
name. 

“ While I have never been introduced to him, I have 
some acquaintance with him, and esteem him a noble 
gentleman.” 

“ W’ere you meet him ? ” 

“I met him first,” he said, “at the graves of my 
parents and sisters.” 

There was a kind of hush after the mention, and the 
lady made no reply. 

“ It was some weeks after my loss,” resumed Frowen- 
feld. 

“ In wad cimetiere dad was ? ” 

“ In no cemetery — being Protestants, you know—’* 

“ Ah, yes, sir ! ” with a gentle sigh. 

“ The physician who attended me procured permis- 
sion to bury them on some private land below the 
city.” 

“ Not in de groun’ ? ” * 


On’y Jews and paupers are buried in the ground in New Orleans. 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


f l6 

“Yes; that was my father’s expressed wish when he 
died.” 

You ’ad de fivver ? Oo nurse you w’en you was 
sick ? ” 

“ An old hired negress.” 

“ Dad was all ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ Hm-m-m ! ’ she said piteously, and laughed in her 
sleeve. 

Who could hope to catch and reproduce the continu- 
ous lively thrill which traversed the frame of the es- 
caped book-worm as every moment there was repeated 
to his consciousness the knowledge that he was walking 
across the vault of heaven with the evening star on his 
arm — at least, that he was, at her instigation, killing 
time along the dim, ill -lighted trottoirs of the rue Char- 
tres, with Aurora listening sympathetically at his side. 
But let it go ; also the sweet broken English with which 
she now and then interrupted him ; also the inward, 
hidden sparkle of her dancing Gallic blood ; her low, 
merry laugh ; the roguish mental reservation that lurked 
behind her graver speeches ; the droll bravados she ut- 
tered against the powers that be, as with timid fingers 
he brushed from her shoulder a little remaining dust of 
the late encounter — these things, we say, we let go, — 
as we let butterflies go rather than pin them to paper. 

They had turned into the rue Bienville, and were 
walking toward the river, Frowenfeld in the midst of a 
long sentence, when a low cry of tearful delight sounded 
in front of them, some one in long robes glided forward, 
and he found his arm relieved of its burden and that 
burden transferred to the bosom and passionate em- 
brace of another — we had almost said a fairer — Creole, 


STARLIGHT IN THE RUE CHARTRES. II 7 

amid a bewildering interchange of kisses and a pelting 
shower of Creole French. 

A moment after, Frowenfeld found himself introduced 
to my dotter, Clotilde,” who all at once ceased her 
demonstrations of affection and bowed to him with a 
majestic sweetness, that seemed one instant grateful and 
the next, distant. 

I can hardly understand that you are not sisters,’' 
said Frowenfeld, a little awkwardly. 

‘‘Ah! ecoutez / ” exclaimed the younger, 

“Ah! par exemple /” cried the elder, and they 
laughed down each other’s throats, while the immigrant 
blushed. 

This encounter was presently followed by a silent sur- 
prise when they stopped and turned before the door of 
No. 19, and Frowenfeld contrasted the women with 
their painfully humble dwelling. But therein is where 
your true Creole was, and still continues to be, properly, 
yea, delightfully un-American ; the outside of his house 
may be as rough as the outside of a bird’s nest ; it is 
the inside that is for the birds ; and the front room of 
this house, when the daughter presently threw open the 
batten shutters of its single street door, looked as bright 
and happy, with its candelabras glittering on the mantel, 
and its curtains of snowy lace, as its bright-eyed tenants. 

“ ’Sieur Frowenfel’, if you pliz to come in,” said 
Aurora, and the timid apothecary would have bravely 
accepted the invitation, but for a quick look which he saw 
the daughter give the mother ; whereupon he asked, in- 
stead, permission to call at some future day, and re- 
ceived the cordial leave of Aurora and another bow 
from Clotilde. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


THAT NIGHT. 

Do we not fail to accord to our nights their true 
value ? We are ever giving to our days the credit and 
blame of all we do and mis-do, forgetting those silent, 
glimmering hours when plans — and sometimes plots — 
are laid ; when resolutions are formed or changed ; 
when heaven, and sometimes heaven’s enemies, are in- 
voked ; when anger and evil thoughts are recalled, and 
sometimes hate made to inflame and fester ; when prob- 
lems are solved, riddles guessed, and things made ap- 
parent in the dark, which day refused to reveal. Our 
nights are the keys to our days. They explain them. 
They are also the day’s correctors. Night’s leisure un- 
tangles the mistakes of day’s haste. We should not at- 
tempt to comprise our pasts in the phrase, in those 
days;” we should rather say ‘‘in those days and 
nights.” 

That night was a long-remembered one to the apothe- 
cary of the rue Royale. But it was after he had closed 
his shop, and in his back room sat pondering the un- 
usual experiences of the evening, that it began to be, in 
a higher degree, a night of events to most of those 
persons who had a part in its earlier incidents. 

That Honors Grandissime whom Frowenfeld had 


THAT NIGHT. 


iig 


only this day learned to know as the Honor6 Grandis- 
sime and the young governor-general were closeted 
together. 

** What can you expect, my-de-seh ? ” the Creole was 
asking, as they confronted each other in the smoke of 
their choice tobacco. Remember, they are citizens by 
compulsion. You say your best and wisest law is that 
one prohibiting the slave-trade ; my-de-seh, I assure 
you, privately, I agree with you ; but they abhor your 
law ! 

Your principal danger — at least, I mean difficulty — 
is this : that the Louisianais themselves, some in pure 
lawlessness, some through loss of office, some in a vague 
hope of preserving the old condition of things, will 
not only hold off from all participation in your govern- 
ment, but will make all sympathy with it, all advocacy 
of its principles, and especially all office-holding un- 
der it, odious — disreputable — infamous. You may find 
yourself constrained to fill your offices with men who can 
face down the contumely of a whole people. You know 
what such men generally are. One out of a hundred 
may be a moral hero — the ninety-nine will be scamps ; 
and the moral hero will most likely get his brains 
blown out early in the day. 

** Count O’Reilly, when he established the Spanish 
power here thirty-five years ago, cut a similar knot with 
the executioner’s sword ; but, my-de-seh, you are here 
to establish a free government ; and how can you make 
it freer than the people wish it ? There is your riddle ! 
They hold off and say, ‘ Make your government as free 
as you can, but do not ask us to help you ; ’ and before 
you know it you have no retainers but a gang of shame- 
/ess mercenaries, who will desert you whenever the in- 


120 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


dignation of this people overbalances their indolence ; 
and you will fall the victim of what you may call our 
mutinous patriotism.” 

The governor made a very quiet, unappreciative re- 
mark about a “ patriotism that lets its government get 
choked up with corruption and then blows it out with 
gunpowder ! ” 

The Creole shrugged. 

“ And repeats the operation indefinitely,” he said. 
The governor said something often heard, before and 
since, to the effect that communities will not sacrifice 
themselves for mere ideas. 

My-de-seh,” replied the Creole, you speak like a 
true Anglo-Saxon ; but, sir ! how many, many com- 
munities have committed suicide. And this one ?— 
why, it is just the kind to do it ! ” 

“Well,” said the governor, smilingly, “you have 
pointed out what you consider to be the breakers, now 
can you point out the channel ? ” 

“ Channel ? There is none ! And you, nor I, cannot 
dig one. Two great forces may ultimately do it. Re- 
ligion and Education — as I was telling you I said to my 
young friend, the apothecary, — but still I am free to say 
what would be my first and principal step, if I was in 
your place — as I thank God I am not.” 

The listener asked him what that was. 

“ Wherever I could find a Creole that I could ven- 
ture to trust, my-de-seh, I would put him in office. 
Never mind a little political heterodoxy, you know ; 
almost any man can be trusted to shoot away from the 

uniform he has on. And then ” 

“ But,” said the other, “ I have offered you 

“ Oh ! ” replied the Creole, like a true merchant. 


THAT NIGHT, 


12 


** me, I am too busy ; it is impossible ! But, I say, I 
would compel, my-de-seh, this people to govern them’ 
selves ! ” 

“ And pray, how would you give a people a free gov- 
ernment and then compel them to administer it ? ” 

** My-de-seh, you should not give one poor Creole 
the puzzle which belongs to your whole Congress ; but 
you may depend on this, that the worst thing for all 
parties — and I say it only because it is worst for all — 
would be a feeble and dilatory punishment of bad 
faith.” 

When this interview finally drew to a close the gover- 
nor had made a memorandum of some fifteen or twenty 
Grandissimes, scattered through different cantons of 
Louisiana, who, their kinsman Honors thought, would 
not decline appointments. 

Certain of the Muses were abroad that night. Faintly 
audible to the apothecary of the rue Royale through 
that deserted stillness which is yet the marked peculiar- 
ity of New Orleans streets by night, came from a neigh- 
boring slave-yard the monotonous chant and machine- 
like tune-beat of an African dance. There our lately 
met marchande (albeit she was but a guest, fortified 
against the street-watch with her master’s written 
“pass”) led the ancient Calinda dance and that well- 
known song of derision, in whose ever multiplying stan- 
zas the helpless satire of a feeble race still continues to 
celebrate the personal failings of each newly prominent 
figure among the dominant caste. There was a new 
distich to the song to-night, signifying that the pride of 
the Grandissimes must find his friends now among the 
Yankees : 


6 


122 


THE GRANDISSIMES, 


Miche Hon’re, alle ! h-alle I 
Trouve to zamis parmi les Yankis. 

Dance calinda, bou-joum ! bou-joum ! 

Dance calinda, bou-joum ! bou-joum ! ** 

Frowenfeld, as we have already said, had closed hii 
shop, and was sitting in the room behind it with one arm 
on his table and the other on his celestial globe, watch- 
ing the flicker of his small fire and musing upon the un 
usual experiences of the evening. Upon every side 
there seemed to start away from his turning glance the 
multiplied shadows of something wrong. The melan- 
ancholy face of that Honore Grandissime, his landlord, 
at whose mention Dr. Keene had thought it fair to 
laugh without explaining ; the tall, bright-eyed mila- 
traisse / old Agricola ; the lady of the basil ; the newly- 
identified merchant friend, now the more satisfactory 
Honore, — they all came before him in his meditation, 
provoking among themselves a certain discord, faint but 
persistent, to which he strove to close his ear. For he 
was brain-weary. Even in the bright recollection of the 
lady and her talk he became involved among shadows, 
and going from bad to worse, seemed at length almost to 
gasp in an atmosphere of hints, allusions, faint unspoken 
admissions, ill-concealed antipathies, unfinished speech- 
es, mistaken identities and whisperings of hidden strife. 
The cathedral clock struck twelve and was answered 
again from the convent tower ; and as the notes died 
away he suddenly became aware that the weird, drowsy 
throb of the African song and dance had been swing- 
ing drowsily in his brain for an unknown lapse of time. 

The apothecary nodded once or twice, and thereupon 
rose up and prepared for bed, thinking to sleep till 
morning. 


T//AT NIGHT. 


123 


Aurora and her daughter had long ago put out their 
chamber light. Early in the evening the younger had 
made favorable mention of retiring, to which the elder 
replied by asking to be left awhile to her own thoughts. 
Clotilde, after some tender protestations, consented, and 
passed through the open door that showed, beyond it, 
their couch. The air had grown just cool and humid 
enough to make the warmth of one small brand on the 
hearth acceptable, and before this the fair widow settled 
herself to gaze beyond her tiny, slippered feet into its 
wavering flame, and think. Her thoughts were such as 
to bestow upon her face that enhancement of beauty that 
comes of pleasant reverie, and to make it certain that that 
little city afforded no fairer sight, — unless, indeed, it was 
the figure of Clotilde just beyond the open door, as in her 
white night-dress enriched with the work of a diligent 
needle, she knelt upon the low prie-Dieu before the lit- 
tle family altar, and committed her pure soul to the 
Divine keeping. 

Clotilde could not have been many minutes asleep 
when Aurora changed her mind and decided to follow. 
The shade upon her face had deepened for a moment 
into a look of trouble ; but a bright philosophy, which 
was part of her paternal birthright, quickly chased it 
away, and she passed to her room, disrobed, lay softly 
down beside the beauty already there and smiled herself 
to sleep, — 

“ Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain, 

As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again.” 

But she also wakened again, and lay beside her un- 
conscious bed-mate, occupied with the company of her 
own thoughts. “ Why should these little concealments 


124 


THE CRANDISSIMES. 


ruffle my bosom ? Does not even Nature herself 
practice wiles ? Look at the innocent birds ; do they 
build where everybody can count their eggs ? And 
shall a poor human creature try to be better than a 
bird ? Didn’t I say my prayers under the blanket just 
now ? ” 

Her companion stirred in her sleep, and she rose upon 
one elbow to bend upon the sleeper a gaze of ardent 
admiration. “ Ah, beautiful little chick ! how guileless ! 
indeed, how deficient in that respect ! ” She sat up in 
the bed and hearkened ; the bell struck for midnight. 
Was that the hour ? The fates were smiling ! Surely 
M. Assonquer himself must have waked her to so choice 
an opportunity. She ought not to despise it. Now, 
by the application ot another and easily wrought charm, 
that darkened hour lately spent with Palmyre would 
have, as it were, its colors set. 

The night had grown much cooler. Stealthily, by 
degrees, she rose and left the couch. The openings of 
the room were a window and two doors, and these, with 
much caution, she contrived to open without noise. 
None of them exposed her to the possibility of public 
view. One door looked into the dim front room ; the 
window let in only a flood of moonlight over the top of 
a high house, which was without openings on that side ; 
the other door revealed a weed-grown back yard and 
that invaluable protector, the cook’s hound, lying fast 
asleep. 

In her night-clothes as she was, she stood a moment 
in the centre of the chamber, then sank upon one knee, 
rapped the floor gently but audibly thrice, rose, drew a 
step backward, sank upon the other knee, rapped thrice, 
rose again, stepped backward, knelt the third time, the 


THAT NIGHT. 


125 


third time rapped, and then, rising, murmured a vow 
to pour upon the ground next day an oblation of cham- 
pagne — then closed the doors and window and crept 
back to bed. Then she knew how cold she had become. 
It seemed as though her very marrow was frozen. She 
was seized with such an uncontrollable shivering that 
Clotilde presently opened her eyes, threw her arm about 
her mother’s neck, and said : 

Ah ! my sweet mother, are you so cold ? ” 

** The blanket was all off of me,” said the mother, 
returning the embrace, and the two sank into uncon- 
sciousness together. 

Into slumber sank almost at the same moment Joseph 
Frowenfeld. He awoke, not a great while later, to find 
himself standing in the middle of the floor. Three or 
four men had shouted at once, and three pistol-shots, 
almost in one instant, had resounded just outside his 
shop. He had barely time to throw himself into half 
his garments when the knocker sounded on his street 
door, and when he opened it Agricola Fusilier entered, 
supported by his nephew Honors on one side and Doctor 
Keene on the other. The latter’s right hand was pressed 
hard against a bloody place in Agricola’s side. 

Give us plenty of light, Frowenfeld,” said the doctor, 
“ and a chair and some lint, and some Castile soap, 
and some towels and sticking-plaster, and anything 
else you can think of. Agricola’s about scared to 
death ” 

“ Professor Frowenfeld,” groaned the aged citizen, 
** I am basely and mortally stabbed ! ” 

“ Right on, Frowenfeld,” continued the doctor, 
‘‘right on into the back room. Fasten that front door. 


26 


THE GRANDISSIMES, 


Here, Agricola, sit down here. That’s right, Frow., stir 
up a little fire. Give me — never mind. I’ll just cut the 
cloth open.” 

There was a moment of silent suspense while the 
wound was being reached, and then the doctor spoke 
again. 

'‘Just as I thought ; only a safe and comfortable gash 
that will keep you in-doors a while with your arm in a 
sling. You are more scared than hurt, I think, old 
gentleman.” 

“ You think an infernal falsehood, sir ! ” 

“See here, sir,” said the doctor, without ceasing to 
ply his dexterous hands in his art, “ I’ll jab these scissors 
into your back if you say that again.” 

“I suppose,” growled the “citizen,” “it it just the 
thing your professional researches have qualified you 
for, sir ! ” 

“Just stand here, Mr. Frowenfeld,” said the little 
doctor, settling down to a professional tone, “ and hand 
me things as I ask for them. Honore, please hold this 
arm ; so.” And so, after a moderate lapse of time, 
the treatment that medical science of those days dictated 
was applied — whatever that was. Let' those who do not 
know give thanks. 

M. Grandissime explained to Frowenfeld what had 
occurred. 

“ You see, I succeeded in meeting my uncle, and we 
went together to my office. My uncle keeps his accounts 
with me. Sometimes we look them over. We stayed 
until midnight ; I dismissed my carriage. As we 
walked homeward we met some friends coming out of 
the rooms of the Bagatelle Club ; five or six of my 
uncles and cousins, and also Doctor Keene. We all fell 


THAT NIGHT, 


127 


a-talking of my grandfather’s f^te de grandp^re of next 
month, and went to have some coffee. When we 
separated, and my uncle and my cousin Achille Gran- 
dissime, and Doctor Keene and myself came down 
Royal street, out from that dark alley behind your 
shop jumped a little man and stuck my uncle with a 
knife. If I had not caught his arm he would have killed 
my uncle.” 

‘‘ And he escaped,” said the apothecary. 

No, sir! ” said Agricola, with his back turned. 

“ I think he did. I do not think he was struck.” 

‘‘ And Mr. , your cousin ? ” 

Achille ? I have sent him for a carriage.” 

Why, Agricola,” said the doctor, snipping the loose 
ra veilings from his patient’s bandages, “ an old man like 
you should not have enemies.” 

** I am not an old man, sir ! ” 

“ I young man.” 

I am not 2. young man, sir ! ” 

** I wonder who the fellow was,” continued Doctor 
Keene, as he re-adjusted the ripped sleeve. 

That is my affair, sir ; I know who it was.” 

♦ **#*# 

*‘%And yet she insists,” M. Grandissime was asking 
Frowenfeld, standing with his leg thrown across the 
celestial globe, ‘‘ that I knocked her down intentionally ? ” 

Frowenfeld, about to answer, was interrupted by a 
knock on the door. 

“That is my cousin, with the carriage,” said M. 
Grandissime, following the apothecary into the shop. 

Frowenfeld opened to a young man, — a rather poor 
specimen of the Grandissime type, deficient in stater# 
but not in stage manner. 


128 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


Est il mart ? ” he cried at the threshold. 

Mr. Frowenfeld, let me make you acquainted with 
my cousin, Achille Grandissime.” 

Mr. Achille Grandissime gave Frowenfeld such a bow 
^is we see now only in pictures. 

“ Ve’y ’appe to meek yo’ acquaintenz ! ” 

Agricola entered, followed by the doctor, and de* 
manded in indignant thunder-tones, as he entered ; 

** Who — ordered — that — carriage ? ” 

“ I did,” said Honors. “ Will you please get into it 
at once.” 

‘‘ Ah ! dear Honore ! ” exclaimed the old man, 
“ always too kind ! I go in it purely to please you.” 

Good-night was exchanged ; Honore entered the 
vehicle and Agricola was helped in. Achille touched 
his hat, bowed and waved his hand to Joseph, and shook 
hands with the doctor, and saying, “ Well, good-night, 
Doctor Keene,” he shut himself out of the shop with 
another low bow. ** Think I am going to shake hands 
with an apothecary ? ” thought M. Achille. 

Doctor Keene had refused Honor6’s invitation to go 
with them. 

Frowenfeld,” he said, as he stood in the middle of 
the shop wiping a ring with a towel and looking at his 
delicate, freckled hand, “ I propose, before going to bed 
with you, to eat some of your bread and cheese. Aren’t 
you glad ? ” 

“ I shall be, Doctor,” replied the apothecary, if you 
will tell me what all this means.” 

“ Indeed I will not, — that is, not to-night. What ? 
Why, it would take until breakfast to tell what ‘ all this 
means/ — the story of that pestiferous darky Bras Coupe, 
with the rest? Oh, no, sir. I would sooner not have 


THAT NIGHT, 1 29 

any bread and cheese. What on earth has waked your 
curiosity so suddenly, anyhow ? ” 

“ Have you any idea who stabbed Citizen Fusilier?’* 
was Joseph’s response. 

“ Why, at first I thought it was the other Honore 
Grandissime ; but when I saw how small the fellow was, 
1 was at a loss, completely. But, whoever it is, he has 
my bullet in him, whatever Honore may think.” 

“ Will Mr. Fusilier’s wound give him much trouble ? ” 
asked Joseph, as they sat down to a luncheon at the fire. 

Hardly ; he has too much of the blood of Lufki- 
Humma in him. But I need not say that ; for the Gran- 
dissime blood is just as strong. A wonderful family, 
those Grandissimes ! They are an old, illustrious line, 
and the strength that was once in the intellect and will 
is going down into the muscles. I have an idea that 
their greatness began, hundreds of years ago, in ponder- 
osity of arm, — of frame, say, — and developed from gen- 
eration to generation, in a rising scale, first into fineness 
of sinew, then, we will say, into force of will, then into 
power of mind, then into subtleties of genius. Now they 
are going back down the incline. Look at Honore ; he 
is high up on the scale, intellectual and sagacious. But 
look at him physically, too. What an exquisite mould ! 
What compact strength ! I should not wonder if he gets 
that from the Indian Queen. What endurance he has ! 
He will probably go to his business by and by and not 
see his bed for seventeen or eighteen hours. He is the 
flower of the family, and possibly the last one. Now, 
old Agricola shows the downward grade better. Sev- 
enty-five, if he is a day, with, maybe, one-fourth the at- 
tainments he pretends to have, and still less good sense ; 
but strong — as an orang-outang. Shall we go to bed ? 

6 * 


CHAPTER XVIIL 


NEW LIGHT UPON DARK PLACES. 

When the long, wakeful night was over, and the doc- 
tor gone, Frowenfeld seated himself to record his usual 
observations of the weather ; but his mind was else- 
where — here, there, yonder. There are understandings 
that expand, not imperceptibly hour by hour, but as 
certain flowers do, by little explosive ruptures, with pe- 
riods of quiescence between. After this night of expe- 
riences it was natural that Frowenfeld should find the 
circumference of his perceptions consciously enlarged. 
The daylight shone, not into his shop alone, but into his 
heart as well. The face of Aurora, which had been the 
dawn to him before, was now a perfect sunrise, while in 
pleasant timeliness had come in this Apollo of a Honore 
Grandissime. The young immigrant was dazzled. He 
felt a longing to rise up and run forward in this flood of 
beams. He was unconscious of fatigue, or nearly so — 
would have been wholly so but for the return by and by 
of that same, dim shadow, or shadows, still rising and 
darting across every motion of the fancy that grouped 
again the actors in last night’s scenes ; not such shadows 
as naturally go with sunlight to make it seem brighter, 
but a something which qualified the light’s perfection 
and the air’s freshness. 

Wherefore, resolved : that he would compound his life, 


N£fV LIGHT UPON DARK PLACES. 13 1 

from this time forward, by a new formula : books, so much ; 
observation, so much ; social intercourse, so much ; love— 
as to that, time enough for that in the future (if he was in 
love with anybody, he certainly did not know it) ; of lovet 
therefore, amount not yet necessary to state, but probably 
(when it should be introduced), in the generous propor- 
tion in which physicians prescribe aqua. Resolved, in 
other words, without ceasing to be Frowenfeld the stu- 
dious, to begin at once the perusal of this newly found 
book, the Community of New Orleans. True, he knew 
he should find it a difficult task — not only that much of 
it was in a strange tongue, but that it was a volume 
whose displaced leaves would have to be lifted tenderly, 
blown free of much dust, re-arranged, some torn frag- 
ments laid together again with much painstaking, and 
even the purport of some pages guessed out. Obviously, 
the place to commence at was that brightly illuminated 
title-page, the ladies Nancanou. 

As the sun rose and diffused its beams in an atmos- 
phere whose temperature had just been recorded as $0^ 
F., the apothecary stepped half out of his shop-door to 
face the bracing air that came blowing upon his tired fore- 
head from the north. As he did so, he said to himself : 

How are these two Honore Grandissimes related to 
each other, and why should one be thought capable of 
attempting the life of Agricola ? ” 

The answer was on its way to him. 

There is left to our eyes, but a poor vestige of the pic- 
turesque view presented to those who looked down the 
rue Royale before the garish day that changed the rue 
Enghien into Ingine street, and dropped the * e from 
Royale. It was a long, narrowing perspective of ar- 
cades, lattices, balconies, zaguans, dormer windows, and 


132 


THE GRANDISSiMES, 


blue sky — of low, tiled roofs, red and wrinkled, huddled 
down into their own shadows ; of canvas awnings with 
fluttering borders, and of grimy lamp-posts twenty feet 
in height, each reaching out a gaunt iron arm over the 
narrow street and dangling a lamp from its end. The 
human life which dotted the view displayed a variety of 
tints and costumes such as a painter would be glad to 
take just as he found them : the gayly feathered Indian, 
the slashed and tinselled Mexican, the leather-breeched 
raftsmen, the blue- or yellow-turbaned 7i^gresse^ the 
sugar-planter in white flannel and moccasins, the aver- 
age townsman in the last suit of clothes of the lately de- 
ceased century, and now and then a fashionable man 
in that costume whose union of tight-buttoned martial 
severity, swathed throat, and effeminate superabundance 
of fine linen seemed to offer a sort of state’s evidence 
against the pompous tyrannies and frivolities of the 
times. 

The marchande des calas was out. She came toward 
Joseph’s shop, singing in a high-pitched nasal tone this 
new song : 


** Dc ’tit zozos — ye te assis — 

Dc ’tit zozos — si la barrier. 

De ’tit zozos, qui zabottc ; 

Qui 9a ye di’ mo pas conne. 

** Manzeur-poulet vini simin, 

Croupe si ye et croque ye ; 

Personn’ pli’ ’tend’ ye zabotte — 

De ’tit zozos si la barrier.” 

You lak dat song ? ” she asked, with a chuckle, as 
she let down from her turbaned head a flat Indian bas 
ket of warm rice cakes. 


N£PV LIGHT UPON DARK PLACES. 133 

“ What does it mean ? 

She laughed again — more than the questioner could 
see occasion for. 

“ Dat mean — two lill birds; dey was sittin’ on de 
fence an’ gabblin’ togeddah, you know, lak you see two 
young gals sometime’, an’ you can’t mek out w’at dey 
sayin’, even ef dey know demself? H-ya ! Chicken- 
hawk come ’long dat road an’ jes’ set down an’ munch 
’em, an’ nobody can’t no mo’hea’ deir lill gabblin’ on de 
fence, you know.” 

Here she laughed again. 

Joseph looked at her with severe suspicion, but she 
found refuge in benevolence. 

** Honey, you ought to be asleep dis werry minit ; 
look lak folks been a-worr’in’ you. Fs gwine to pick 
out de werry bes’ calas Fs got for you.” 

As she delivered them she courtesied, first to Joseph 
and then, lower and with hushed gravity, to a person 
who passed into the shop behind him, bowing and mur- 
muring politely as he passed. She followed the new- 
comer with her eyes, hastily accepted the price of the 
cakes, whispered, Dat’s my mawstah,” lifted her bas- 
ket to her head and went away. Her master was Frow- 
enfeld’s landlord. 

Frowenfeld entered after him, calas in hand, and 
with a grave “ good-morning, sir.” 

“ m’sieu’,” responded the landlord, with a low 

bow. 

Frowenfeld waited in silence. 

The landlord hesitated, looked around him, seemed 
about to speak, smiled, and said, in his soft, solemn 
voice, feeling his way word by word through the unfa 
miliar language : 


134 


THE GRANDISSIMEs, 


Ah lag to teg you apar’.” 

See me alone ? ” 

The landlord recognized his error by a fleeting smile 

“ Alone,” said he. 

“ Shall we go into my room ? ” 

“ Sil vous plaits m'sieti'.'' 

Frowenfeld’s breakfast, furnished by contract from a 
neighboring kitchen, stood on the table. It was a frugal 
one, but more comfortable than formerly, and included 
coffee, that subject of just pride in Creole cookery. 
Joseph deposited his calas with these things and made 
haste to produce a chair, which his visitor, as usual, de- 
clined. 

** Idd you’ bregfuz, m’sieu’.” 

** I can do that afterward,” said Frowenfeld ; but the 
landlord insisted and turned away from him to look up 
at the books on the wall, precisely as that other of the 
same name had done a few weeks before. 

Frowenfeld, as he broke his loaf, noticed this, and, 
as the landlord turned his face to speak, wondered that 
he had not before seen the common likeness. 

Dez stog,” said the sombre man. 

** What, sir ? Oh ! — dead stock ? But how can the 
materials of an education be dead stock ? ” 

The landlord shrugged. He would not argue the 
point. One American trait which the Creole is never 
entirely ready to encounter is this gratuitous Yankee 
way of going straight to the root of things. 

“ Dead stock in a mercantile sense, you mean,” con- 
tinued the apothecary ; ''but are men right in measup 
ing .^u^h things only by their present market value ? ” 

The landlord had no reply. It was little to him, his 
manner intimated ; his contemplation dwelt on deeper 


//£IV LIGHT UPON DARK PLACES. 1 35 

flaws in human right and wrong ; yet — but it was need- 
less to discuss it. However, he did speak. 

“ Ah was elevade in Pariz.” 

“ Educated in Paris,” exclaimed Joseph, admiringly. 
** Then you certainly cannot find your education dead 
stock.” 

The grave, not amused, smile which was the landlord’s 
only rejoinder, though perfectly courteous, intimated 
that his tenant was sailing over depths of the question 
that he was little aware of. But the smile in a moment 
gave way for the look of one who was engrossed with 
another subject. 

M’sieu’,” he began ; but just then Joseph made an 
apologetic gesture and went forward to wait upon an 
inquirer after “ Godfrey’s Cordial; ” for that comforter 
was known to be obtainable at “ Frowenfeld’s.” The 
business of the American drug-store was daily increas- 
ing. When Frowenfeld returned his landlord stood 
ready to address him, with the air of having decided to 
make short of a matter. 

“ M’sieu’ ” 

“ Have a seat, sir,” urged the apothecary. 

His visitor again declined, with his uniform melan- 
choly grace. He drew close to Frowenfeld. 

Ah wand you mague me one ouangan” he said. 

Joseph shook his head. He remembered Doctor 
Keene’s expressed suspicion concerning the assault of 
the night before. 

“ I do not understand, you, sir ; what is that ? ” 

You know.” 

The landlord offered a heavy, persuading smile. 

“ An unguent ? Is that what you mean — an oint 
ment ? ” 


13 ^ 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


“ M’sieu’,” said the applicant, with a not-to-be-de 
ceived expression, ‘ * vous etes astrologue — magicien 

“ God forbid! " 

The landlord was grossly incredulous. 

“ You godd one ‘ P’tit Albert.’ ” 

He dropped his forefinger upon an iron-clasped book 
on the table, whose title much use had effaced. 

‘‘That is the Bible. I do not know what the Tee 
Albare is ! ” 

Frowenfeld darted an aroused glance into the ever- 
courteous eyes of his visitor, who said without a motion : 

“You di’n’t gave Agricola ¥ usWitx une ouangan, la 
nuit passe? ” 

“ Sir?” 

“ Ee was yeh ? — laz nighd ? ” 

“Mr. Fusilier was here last night — yes. He had 
been attacked by an assassin and slightly wounded. 
He was accompanied by his nephew, who, I suppose, is 
your cousin; he has the same name.” 

Frowenfeld, hoping he had changed the subject, con- 
cluded with a propitiatory smile, which, however, was 
not reflected. 

“ Ma bruzzah,” said the visitor. 

“ Your brother 1 ” 

“ Ma whide bruzzah ; ah ham nod whide, m’sieu*.” 

Joseph said nothing. He was too much awed to 
speak ; the ejaculation that started toward his lips 
turned back and rushed into his heart, and it was the 
quadroon who, after a moment, broke the silence : 

“ Ah ham de holdez son of Numa Grandissime.” 

“ Yes — yes,” said Frowenfeld, as if he would wave 
away something terrible. 

“ Nod sell me — ouangan ? ” asked the landlord, agaia 


NEW LIGHT UPON DARK PLACES. 


137 


Sir,” exclaimed Frowenfeld, taking a step backward, 
“ pardon me if I offend you ; that mixture of blood which 
draws upon you the scorn of this community, is to me 
nothing — nothing ! And every invidious distinction 
made against you on that account I despise ! But, sir, 
whatever may be either your private wrongs, or the 
wrongs you suffer in common with your class, if you have 
it in your mind to employ any manner of secret art 
against the interests or person of any one ” 

The landlord was making silent protestations, and his ten- 
ant, lost in a wilderness of indignant emotions, stopped. 

** M’sieuV’ began the quadroon, but ceased and stood 
with an expression of annoyance every moment deepen- 
ing on his face, until he finally shook his head slowly, 
and said with a baffled smile : “ Ah can nod spigEngliss.” 

“ Write it,” said Frowenfeld, lifting forward a chair. 

The landlord, for the first time in their acquaintance, 
accepted a seat, bowing low as he did so, with a demon- 
stration of profound gratitude that just perceptibly 
heightened his even dignity. Paper, quills, and ink 
were handed down from a shelf and Joseph retired into 
the shop. 

Honors Grandissime, f. m. c. (these initials could 
hardly have come into use until some months later but 
the convenience covers the sin of the slight anachroni,’»m), 
Honors Grandissime, free man of color, entered from 
the rear room so silently that Joseph was first made 
aw'are of his presence by feeling him at his elbow. He 

handed the apothecary but a few words in time, lest 

we misjudge. 

The father of the two Honoris was that Numa Gran- 
dissime — that mere child — whom the Grand Marquis, to 


138 


THE GRANDISSIMES, 


the great chagrin of the De Grapions, had so early 
cadetted. The commission seems not to have been 
thrown away. While the province was still in first 
hands, Numa’s was a shining name in the annals of 
Kerlerec’s unsatisfactory Indian wars; and in 1768 
(when the colonists, ill-informed, inflammable, and long 
ill-governed, resisted the transfer of Louisiana to Spain), 
at a time of life when most young men absorb all the 
political extravagances of their day, he had stood by the 
side of law and government, though the popular cry was 
a frenzied one for “liberty.” Moreover, he had held 
back his whole chafing and stamping tribe from a preci- 
pice of disaster, and had secured valuable recognition of 
their office-holding capacities from that really good gov- 
ernor and princely Irishman whose one act of summary 
vengeance upon a few insurgent office-coveters has 
branded him in history as Cruel O’Reilly. But the ex- 
perience of those days turned Numa gray, and withal 
he was not satisfied with their outcome. In the midst 
of the struggle he had weakened in one manly resolve — 
against his will he married. The lady was a Fusilier, 
Agricola’s sister, a person of rare intelligence and 
beauty, whom, from early childhood, the secret counsels 
of his seniors had assigned to him. Despite this, he 
had said he would never marry ; he made, he said, no 
pretensions to severe conscientiousness, or to being bet- 
ter than others, but — as between his Maker and himself 
— he had forfeited the right to wed, they all knew how. 
But the Fusiliers had become very angry and Numa, 
finding strife about to ensue just when without unity he 
could not bring an undivided clan through the torrent 
of the revolution, had “ nobly sacrificed a little sentk 
mental feeling,” as his family defined it, by breaking 


J\r£H^ LIGHT UPON DARK PLACES. 


139 


faith with the mother of the man now standing at 
Joseph Frowenfeld’s elbow, and who was then a little 
toddling boy. It was necessary to save the party — nay, 
that was a slip ; we should say, to save the family ; this 
is not a parable. Yet Numa loved his wife. She bore 
him a boy and a girl, twins ; and as her son grew in 
physical, intellectual, and moral symmetry, he indulged 
the hope that — the ambition and pride of all the various 
Grandissimes now centering in this lawful son, and all 
strife being lulled, he should yet see this Honore right 
the wrongs which he had not quite dared to uproot. 
And Honore inherited the hope and began to make it 
an intention and aim even before his departure (with his 
half-brother the other Honore) for school in Paris, at the 
early age of fifteen. Numa soon after died, and Honore, 
after various fortunes in Paris, London, and elsewhere, 
in the care, or at least company, of a pious uncle in holy 
orders, returned to the ancestral mansion. The father's 
will — by the law they might have set it aside, but that 
was not their way — left the darker Honore the bulk of 
his fortune, the younger a competency. The latter — in- 
stead of taking office as an ancient Grandissime should 
have done — to the dismay and mortification of his kin' 
dred, established himself in a prosperous commercial 
business. The elder bought houses and became a rentier. 

The landlord handed the apothecary the following 
writing : 

Mr. Joseph Frowenfeld : 

Think not that anybody is to be either poisoned by me nor yet to bt 
made a sufferer by the exercise of anything by me of the character of what 
is generally known as grigri, otherwise magique. This, sir, I do beg you/ 


140 


Tim GRANDISSIMES. 


permission to offer my assurance to you of the same. Ah, no ! it is not 
for that ! I am the victim of another entirely and a far differente and dis- 
similar passion, i. e.. Love. Esteemed sir, speaking or writing to you as 
unto the only man of exclusively white blood whom I believe is in Louisiana 
willing to do my dumb, suffering race the real justice, I love Palmyre la 
Philosophe with a madness which is by the human lips or tongues not pos- 
sible to be exclaimed (as, I may add, that I have in the same like manner 
since exactley nine years and seven months and some days). Alas ! heavens ! 
I can’t help it in the least particles at all ! What, what shall I do, for ah ! 
it is pitiful ! She loves me not at all, but, on the other hand, is (if I sus- 
picion not wrongfully) wrapped up head and ears in devotion of one who 
does not love her, either, so cold and incapable of appreciation is he. I 
allude to Honore Grandissime. 

Ah ! well do I remember the day when we returned — he and me — from 
the France. She was there when we landed on that levee, she was among 
that throng of kindreds and domestiques, she shind like the evening star as 
she stood there (it was the first time I saw her, but she was known to him 
when at fifteen he left his home, but I resided not under my own white 
father’s roof — not at all — far from that). She cried out ‘ A la fin to 
vini / ” and leap herself with both resplendant arm around his neck and 
kist him twice on the one cheek and the other, and her resplendant eyes 
shining with a so great beauty. 

If you will give me a poudre d' amour such as I doubt not your great 
knowledge enable you to make of a power that cannot to be resist, while 
still at the same time of a harmless character toward the life or the health 
of such that I shall succeed in its use to gain the affections of that empe- 
rice of my soul, I hesitate not to give you such price as it may please you 
to nominate up as high as to $i,ooo — nay, tnore. Sir, will you do that ? 

I have the honor to remain, sir, 

Very respectfully, your obedient servant, 

H. Grandissime. 

Frowenfeld slowly transferred his gaze from the paper 
to his landlord’s face. Dejection and hope struggled 
with each other in the gaze that was returned ; but when 
Joseph said, with a countenance full of pity, “ I have no 
power to help you,” the disappointed lover merely gazed 
fixedly for a moment in the direction of the street, then 
lifted his hat toward his head, bowed, and departed 


CHAPTER XIX. 


ART AND COMMERCE. 

IT was some two or three days after the interview 
just related that the apothecary of the rue Royale found 
it necessary to ask a friend to sit in the shop a few min- 
utes while he should go on a short errand. He was 
kept away somewhat longer than he had intended to 
stay, for, as they were coming out of the cathedral, he 
met Aurora and Clotilde. Both the ladies greeted him 
with a cordiality which was almost inebriating. Aurora 
even extending her hand. He stood but a moment, re- 
sponding blushingly to two or three trivial questions 
from Aurora ; yet even in so short a time, and although 
Clotilde gave ear with the sweetest smiles and loveliest 
changes of countenance, he experienced a lively re- 
newal of a conviction that this young lady was most 
unjustly harboring toward him a vague disrelish, if not 
a positive distrust. That she had some mental reserva- 
tion was certain. 

** ’Sieur Frowenfeiy’ said Aurora, as he raised his 
hat for good-day, ‘‘you din come home yet.’* 

He did not understand until he had crimsoned and 
answered he knew not what — something about having 
intended every day. He felt lifted he knew not where. 
Paradise opened, there was a flood of glory, and then 
he was alone ; the ladies, leaving adieux sweeter than 


142 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


the perfume they carried away with them, floated into 
the south and were gone. Why was it that the elder, 
though plainly regarded by the younger with admira- 
tion, dependence, and overflowing affection, seemed 
sometimes to be, one might almost say, watched by 
her ? He liked Aurora the better. 

On his return to the shop his friend remarked that if 
he received many such visitors as the one who had 
called during his absence, he might be permitted to be 
vain. It was Honore Grandissime, and he had left no 
message. 

“ Frowenfeld,” said his friend, “ it would pay you to 
employ a regular assistant.” 

Joseph was in an abstracted mood. 

I have some thought of doing so.” 

Unlucky slip ! As he pushed open his door next 
morning, what was his dismay to find himself confront- 
ed by some forty men. Five of them leaped up from 
the door-sill, and some thirty-five from the edge of the 
trottoir^ brushed that part of their wearing-apparel which 
always fits with great neatness on a Creole, and trooped 
into the shop. The apothecary fell behind his defences, 
that is to say, his prescription desk, and explained to 
them in a short and spirited address that he did not 
wish to employ any of them on any terms. Nine-tenths 
of them understood not a word of English ; but his ges- 
ture was unmistakable. They bowed gratefully, and 
said good-day. 

Now Frowenfeld did these young men an injustice ; 
and though they were far from letting him know it, some 
of them felt it and interchanged expressions of feeling 
reproachful to him as they stopped on the next corner 
to watch a man painting a sign. He had treated them 


ART AND COMMERCE, 


143 


as if they all wanted situations. Was this so ? Fai 
from it. Only twenty men were applicants ; the other 
twenty were friends who had come to see them get the 
place. And again, though, as the apothecary had said, 
none of them knew anything about the drug business — 
no, nor about any other business under the heavens — 
they were all willing that he should teach them — except 
one. A young man of patrician softness and costly ap- 
parel tarried a moment after the general exodus, and 
quickly concluded that on Frowenfeld’s account it was 
probably as well that he could not qualify, since he was 
expecting from France an important government ap-' 
pointment as soon as these troubles should be settled and 
Louisiana restored to her former happy condition. But 
he had a friend — a cousin — whom he would recom- 
mend, just the man for the position ; a splendid fellow ; 
popular, accomplished — what ? the best trainer of dogs 
that M. Frowenfeld might ever hope to look upon ; a 

so good fisherman as I never saw ! ” — the marvel of 
the ball-room — could handle a partner of twice his 
weight ; the speaker had seen him take a lady so tall 
that his head hardly came up to her bosom, whirl her in 
the waltz from right to left — this way ! and then, as 
quick as lightning, turn and whirl her this way, from 
left to right — ‘‘so grezful ligue a peajohn ! He could 
read and write, and knew more comig song ! ” — the 
speaker would hasten to secure him before he should 
take some other situation. 

The wonderful waltzer never appeared upon the scene ; 
yet Joseph made shift to get along, and by and by found 
a man who partially met his requirements. The way of 
it was this : With his forefinger in a book which he had 
been reading, he was one day pacing his shop floor in 


144 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


deep thought. There were two loose threads hanging 
from the web of incident weaving around him which ought 
to connect somewhere ; but where ? They were the two 
visits made to his shop by the young merchant, Honors 
Grandissime. He stopped still to think; what train 
of thought could he have started in the mind of such 
a man ? 

He was about to resume his walk, when there came 
in, or, more strictly speaking, there shot in, a young, 
auburn-curled, blue-eyed man, whose adolescent buoy- 
ancy, as much as his delicate, silver-buckled feet and 
clothes of perfect fit, pronounced him all-pure-Creole. 
His name, when it was presently heard, accounted for 
the blond type by revealing a Franco-Celtic origin. 

’Sieur Frowenfel’,” he said, advancing like a boy 
coming in after recess, I 'ave somet’ing beauteeful to 
place into yo’ window.” 

He wheeled half around as he spoke and seized from 
a naked black boy, who at that instant entered, a rectan- 
gular object enveloped in paper. 

Frowenfeld’s window was fast growing to be a place 
of art exposition. A pair of statuettes, a golden tobacco- 
box, a costly jewel-casket, or a pair of richly gemmed 
horse-pistols — the property of some ancient gentleman 
or dame of emaciated fortune, and which must be sold 
to keep up the bravery of good clothes and pomade that 
hid slow starvation, went into the shop-window of the 
ever-obliging apothecary, to be disposed of by tombola. 
And it is worthy of note in passing, concerning the 
moral education of one who proposed to make no con* 
scious compromise with any sort of evil, that in this 
drivelling species of gambling he saw nothing hurtful or 
improper. But ‘Hn Frowenfeld’s window” appeared 


ART AND COMMERCE. 


145 


also articles for simple sale or mere transient exhibition ; 
as, for instance, the wonderful tapestries of a blind widow 
of ninety ; tremulous little bunches of flowers, proudly 
stated to have been made entirely of the bones of the 
ordinary catfish ; others, large and spreading, the sight 
of which would make any botanist fall down “ and die 
as mad as the wild waves be,” whose ticketed merit was 
that they were composed exclusively of materials pro- 
duced upon Creole soil ; a picture of the Ursulines’ con- 
vent and chapel, done in forty-five minutes by a child 
of ten years, the daughter of the widow Felicie Gran- 
dissime ; and the siege of Troy, in ordinary ink, done 
entirely with the pen, the labor of twenty years, by a 
citizen of New Orleans.” It was natural that these 
things should come to “ Frowenfeld’s corner,” for there, 
oftenerthan elsewhere, the critics were gathered together. 
Ah ! wonderful men, those critics ; and, fortunately, we 
have a few still left. 

The young man with auburn curls rested the edge of 
his burden upon the counter, tore away its wrappings 
and disclosed a painting. 

He said nothing — with his mouth ; but stood at arm’s 
length balancing the painting and casting now upon it 
and now upon Joseph Frowenfeld a look more replete 
with triumph than Caesar’s three worded dispatch. 

The apothecary fixed upon it long and silently the 
gaze of a somnambulist. At length he spoke : 

What is it ? ” 

** Louisiana rif-using to hanter de h-Union ! ” replied 
the Creole, with an ecstasy that threatened to burst forth 
in hip-hurrahs. 

Joseph said nothing, but silently wondered at Louis- 
iana’s anatomy. 

7 


146 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


“ Gran’ subjec’ ! ” said the Creole. 

‘‘ Allegorical,” replied the hard pressed apothecary. 

“ Allegoricon ? No, sir ! Allegoricon never saw that 
pigshoe. If you insist to know who make dat pigshoe 
• — de hartis’ stan’ bif-ore you ! ” 

It is your work ? ” 

*‘’Tis de work of me, Raoul Innerarity, cousin to da 
distingwish Honore Grandissime. I swear to you, sir, 
on stack of Bible’ as ’igh as yo’ head ! ” 

He smote his breast. 

“ Do you wish to put it in the window ? 

** Yes, seh.” 

For sale ? ” 

M. Raoul Innerarity hesitated a moment before re- 
plying : 

“ ’Sieur Frowenfel’, I think it is a foolishness to be 
too proud, eh ? I want you to say, * My frien’, ’Sieur 
Innerarity, never care to sell anything ; 'tis for egs- 
hibbyshun’ ; mais — when somebody look at it, so,” the 
artist cast upon his work a look of languishing covetous- 
ness, ‘ you say, foudre tonnerre ! what de dev’ ! — I take 
dat ris-pon-sibble-ty — you can have her for two hun’red 
fifty dollah ! ’ Better not be too proud, eh, ’Sieur 
Frowenfel’ ? ” 

“ No, sir,” said Joseph, proceeding to place it in the 
window, his new friend following him about, spaniel- 
wise ; “ but you had better let me say plainly that it is 
for sale.” 

Oh — I don’t care — mais — my rillation’ will never 
forgive me! Mais — go-ahead-I-don’t-care ! ’Tis for 
sale.” 

“ Sieur Frowenfel’,” he resumed, as they came away 
from the window, one week ago ” — he held up one 


ART AND COMMERCE. 


147 


finger — '‘what I was doing? Makia’ bill of ladin’, my 
faith ! — for my cousin Honore ! an’ now, 1 ham a hartis’ ! 
So soon I foun’ dat, I say, ‘ Cousin Honore,’ ” — the 
eloquent speaker lifted his foot and administered to the 
empty air a soft, polite kick — “ I never goin’ to do 
anoder lick o’ work so long I live ; adieu ! ” 

He lifted a kiss from his lips and wafted it in the 
direction of his cousin’s office. 

“ Mr. Innerarity,” exclaimed the apothecary, “ I fear 
you are making a great mistake.” 

“ You tink I hass too much ? ” 

" Well, sir, to be candid, I do ; but that is not your 
greatest mistake.” 

“ What she’s worse ? ” 

The apothecary simultaneously smiled and blushed. 

“I would rather not say ; it is a passably good ex- 
ample of Creole art ; there is but one way by which it 
can ever be worth what you ask for it.” 

“ What dat is? ” 

The smile faded and the blush deepened as Frowen- 
feld replied : 

“If it could become the means of reminding this 
community that crude ability counts next to nothing in 
art, and that nothing else in this world ought to work 
so hard as genius, it would be worth thousands of 
dollars ! ” 

“You tink she is worse a t’ousand dollah ? ” asked 
the Creole, shadow and sunshine chasing each other 
across his face. 

“ No, sir.” 

The unwilling critic strove unnecessarily against his 
smile. 

“ Ow much you t’ink ? ” 


148 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


“ Mr. Innerarity, as an exercise it is worth whatever 
truth or skill it has taught you ; to a judge of paintings 
it is ten dollars’ worth of paint thrown away ; but as an 
article of sale it is worth what it will bring without 
misrepresentation. ” 

“ Two — hun-rade an’ — fifty — dollahs or — not’in’ ! ” 
said the indignant Creole, clenching one fist, and with 
the other hand lifting his hat by the front corner and 
slapping it down upon the counter. “ Ha, ha, ha! a 
pase of waint — a wase of paint! ’Sieur Frowenfel’, you 
don’ know not’in’ ’bout it! You har ajedge of paint- 
ing ? ” he added cautiously. 

No, sir.” 

Eh, bien ! foudre tonnerre ! — look yeh ! you know? 
^Sieur Frowenfel’? Dat de way de publique halways 
talk about a hartis’s firs’ pigshoe. But, I hass you to 
pardon me, Monsieur Frowenfel’, if I ’ave speak a lill 
too warm.” 

“Then you must forgive me if, in my desire to set 
you right, I have spoken with too much liberty. I 
probably should have said only what I first intended to 
say, that unless you are a person of independent 
means ” 

“You t’ink I would make bill of ladin’ ? Ah! 
Hm-m ! ” 

“ that you had made a mistake in throwing up 

your means of support ” 

“ But ’e ’as fill de place an’ don’ want me no mo’. 
Vou want a clerk ? — one what can speak fo’ lang-widge 
—French, Eng lish, Spanish, an’ Italienne ? Come ! I 
work for you in de mawnin’ an’ paint in de evenin’ ; 
come ! ” 

Joseph was taken unaware. He smiled, frowned, 


ART AND COMMERCE. 


140 


passed his hand across his brow, noticed, for the first 
time since his delivery of the picture, the naked little 
boy standing against the edge of a door, said, ‘‘ Why 
,” and smiled again. 

“ I riffer you to my cousin Honore,” said Innerarity. 

“ Have you any knowledge of this business ? ’’ 

‘‘ I ’ave.” 

“ Can you keep shop in the forenoon or afternoon in- 
differently, as I may require ? ” 

“ Eh ? Forenoon — afternoon ? ” was the reply. 

“ Can you paint sometimes in the morning and keep 
shop in the evening ? ” 

“ Yes, seh.” 

Minor details were arranged on the spot. Raoul dis- 
missed the black boy, took off his coat and fell to work 
decanting something, with the understanding that his 
salary, a microscopic one, should begin from date if his 
cousin should recommend him. 

“ ’Sieur FrowenfelV’ he called from under the counter, 
later in the day, you t’ink it would be hanny disgrace 
to paint de pigshoe of a niggah ? ” 

Certainly not.” 

“ Ah, my soul ! what a pigshoe I could paint of Bras- 
Coupe ! ” 

We have the afflatus in Louisiana, if nothing else. 


CHAPTER XX. 


A VERY NATURAL MISTAKE. 

Mr. Raoul Innerarity proved a treasure. The 
fact became patent in a few hours. To a student of the 
community he was a key, a lamp, a lexicon, a micro- 
scope, a tabulated statement, a book of heraldry, a city 
directory, a glass of wine, a Book of Days, a pair of 
wings, a comic almanac, a diving bell, a Creole veritas. 
Before the day had had time to cool, his continual stream 
of words had done more to elucidate the mysteries in 
which his employer had begun to be befogged than half 
a year of the apothecary’s slow and scrupulous guessing. 
It was like showing how to carve a strange fowl. The 
way he dovetailed story into story and drew forward in 
panoramic procession Lufki-Humma and Epaminondas 
Fusilier, Zephyr Grandissime and the lady of the lettre 
de cachety Demosthenes De Grapion and the Jille a I'ho- 
pitaly George De Grapion and the jille a la cassette, 
Numa Grandissime, father of the two Honoris, young 
Nancanou and old Agricola, — the way he made them 

** Knit hands and beat the ground 
In a light, fantastic round,” 

would have shamed the skilled volubility of Shehara- 
zade. 

“Look!” said the story-teller, summing up; “you 


A VERY NATURAL MISTAKE. 151 

take hanny ’istory of France an’ see the hage of my fam- 
ilie. Pipple talk about de Boulignys, de Sauves, de 
Grandpr^s, de Lemoynes, de St. Maxents, — bla-a-al 
De Grandissimes is as hole as de dev’ ! What ? De 
mose of de Creole families is not so hold as plenty of my 
yallah kinfolks ! ” 

The apothecary found very soon that a little salt im- 
proved M. Raoul’s statements. I 

But here he was, a perfect treasure, and Frowenfeld, 
fleeing before his illimitable talking power in order to 
digest in seclusion the ancestral episodes of the Grandis- 
simes and De Grapions, laid pleasant plans for the imme- 
diate future. To-morrow morning he would leave the 
shop in Raoul’s care and call on M. Honore Grandissime 
to advise with him concerning the retention of the 
born artist as a drug-clerk. To-morrow evening he 
would pluck courage and force his large but bashful feet 
up to the door-step of Number 19 rue Bienville. And 
the next evening he would go and see what might be 
the matter with Doctor Keene, who had looked ill on last 
parting with the evening group that lounged in Frowen- 
feld’s door, some three days before. The intermediate 
hours were to be devoted, of course, to the prescription 
desk and his “ dead stock.” 

And yet after this order of movement had been thus 
compactly planned, there all the more seemed still to be 
that abroad which, now on this side, and now on that, 
was urging him in a nervous whisper to make haste. 
There had escaped into the air, it seemed, and was glid- 
ing about, the expectation of a crisis. 

Such a feeling would have been natural enough to the 
tenants of Number 19 rue Bienville, now spending the 
tenth of the eighteen days of grace allowed them in 


152 


THE GRANDISSIMES, 


which to save their little fortress. For Palmyre’s assur- 
ance that the candle-burning would certainly cause the 
rent-money to be forthcoming in time was to Clotilde 
unknown, and to Aurora it was poor stuff to make peace 
of mind of. But there was a degree of impractibility in 
these ladies, which, if it was unfortunate, was, neverthe- 
less, a part of their Creole beauty, and made the absence 
of any really brilliant outlook what the galaxy makes a 
moonless sky. Perhaps they had not been as diligent 
as they might have been in canvassing all possible ways 
and means for meeting the pecuniary emergency so fast 
bearing down upon them. From a Creole standpoint, 
they were not bad managers. They could dress delight- 
fully on an incredibly small outlay ; could wear a well- 
to-do smile over an inward sigh of stifled hunger ; could 
tell the parents of their one or two scholars to consult 
their convenience, and then come home to a table that 
would make any kind soul weep ; but as to estimating 
the velocity of bills payable in their orbits, such trained 
sagacity was not theirs. Their economy knew how to 
avoid what the Creole- African apothegm calls commerce 
Man Lizon—qui assets pou trois picaillons et vend pou' 
ein escalin (bought for three picayunes and sold for two) ; 
but it was an economy that made their very hound a 
Spartan ; for, had that economy been half as wise as it 
was heroic, his one meal a day would not always have 
been the cook’s leavings of cold rice and the lickings of 
the gumbo plates. 

On the morning fixed by Joseph Frowenfeld for call- 
ing on M. Grandissime, on the banquette of the rue 
Toulouse, directly in front of an old Spanish archway 
and opposite a blacksmith’s shop, — this blacksmith’s shop 
stood between a jeweller’s store and a large, balconied 


A VERY NATURAL MISTAKE, 


153 


and dormer-windowed wine-warehouse — Aurore Nanca- 
nou, closely veiled, had halted in a hesitating way and 
was inquiring of a gigantic negro cartman the where- 
abouts of the counting-room of M. Honors Grandis- 
sime. 

Before he could respond she descried the name upon 
a staircase within the archway, and, thanking the cart- 
man as she would have thanked a prince, hastened to 
ascend. An inspiring smell of warm rusks, coming from 
a bakery in the paved court below, rushed through the 
archway and up the stair and accompanied her into the 
cemetery-like silence of the counting-room. There were 
in the department some fourteen clerks. It was a den 
of Grandissimes. More than half of them were men 
beyond middle life, and some were yet older. One or 
two are so handsome, under their noble silvery locks, 
that almost any woman — Clotilde, for instance, — would 
have thought, “ No doubt that one, or that one, is the 
head of the house.” Aurora approached the railing 
which shut in the silent toilers and directed her eyes to 
the farthest corner of the room. There sat there at a 
large desk a thin, sickly-looking man with very sore 
eyes and two pairs of spectacles, plying a quill with a 
privileged loudness. 

“ H-h-m-m ! ” said she, very softly. 

A young man laid down his rule and stepped to the 
rail with a silent bow. His face showed a jaded look. 
Night revelry, rather than care or years, had wrinkled it ; 
but his bow was high-bred. 

Madame,” — in an undertone. 

“ Monsieur, it is M. Grandissime whom I wish to see,*' 
she said, in French. 

But the young man responded in English. 

7 * 


154 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


You har one tenant, ent it ? 

“ Yes, seh.” 

‘‘ Zen eet ees M. De Brahmin zat you ’ave to see.” 

“No, seh ; M. Grandissime.” 

“ M. Grandissime nevva see one tenant.” 

“ I muz see M. Grandissime.” 

Aurora lifted her veil and laid it up on her bonnet. 

The clerk immediately crossed the floor to the distant 
desk. The quill of the sore-eyed man scratched louder 
— scratch, scratch — as though it were trying to scratch 
under the door of Number 19 rue Bienville — for a mo- 
ment, and then ceased. The clerk, with one hand be- 
hind him and one touching the desk, murmured a few 
words, to which the other, after glancing under his arm 
at Aurora, gave a short, low reply and resumed his pen. 
The clerk returned, came through a gate-way in the 
railing, led the way into a rich inner room, and turning 
with another courtly bow, handed her a cushioned arm- 
chair and retired. 

“ After eighteen years,” thought Aurora, as she found 
herself alone. It had been eighteen years since any repre- 
sentative of the De Grapion line had met a Grandissime 
face to face, so far as she knew ; even that representa- 
tive was only her deceased husband, a mere connection 
by marriage. How many years it was since her grand- 
father, Georges De Grapion, captain of dragoons, had 
had his fatal meeting with a Mandarin de Grandissime, 
she did not remember. There, opposite her on the wall, 
was the portrait of a young man in a corslet who might 
have been M. Mandarin himself. She felt the blood of 
her race growing warmer in her veins. “ Insolent tribe,” 
she said, without speaking, “ we have no more men left to 
fight you ; but now wait. See what a woman can do.” 


A VERY NATURAL MISTAKE. 


155 


These thoughts ran through her mind as her eye 
passed from one object to another. Something re- 
minded her of Frowenfeld, and, with mingled defiance 
at her inherited enemies and amusement at the apothe- 
cary, she indulged in a quiet smile. The smile was still 
there as her glance in its gradual sweep reached a small 
mirror. 

She almost leaped from her seat. 

Not because that mirror revealed a recess which she 
had not previously noticed ; not because behind a costly 
desk therein sat a youngish man, reading a letter; not 
because he might have been observing her, for it was 
altogether likely that, to avoid premature interruption, 
he had avoided looking up ; nor because this was evi- 
dently Honore Grandissime ; but because Honors Grand- 
issime, if this were he, was the same person whom she 
had seen only with his back turned in the pharmacy — 
the rider whose horse ten days ago had knocked her 
down, the Lieutenant of Dragoons who had unmasked 
and to whom she had unmasked at the ball ! Fly ! 
But where ? How ? It was too late ; she had not even 
time to lower her veil. M. Grandissime looked up at 
the glass, dropped the letter with a slight start of con- 
sternation and advanced quickly toward her. For an 
instant her embarrassment showed itself in a mantling 
blush and a distressful yearning to escape ; but the next 
moment she rose, all a-flutter within, it is true, but w'ith 
a face as nearly sedate as the inborn witchery of her eyes 
would allow. 

He spoke in Parisian French ; 

• ‘ Please be seated, madame.*' 

She sank down. 

Do you wish to see me ? ” 


156 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


‘*No, sir.” 

She did not see her way out of this falsehood, but— ' 
she couldn’t say yes. 

Silence followed. 

“Whom do ” 

“I wish to see M. Honors Grandissime.” 

“ That is my name, madame.” 

“Ah!” — with an angelic smile; she had collected 
her wits now, and was ready for war. “You are not 
one of his clerks ? ” 

M. Grandissime smiled softly, while he said to him- 
self: “You little honey-bee, you want to sting me, 
eh ? ” and then he answered her question. 

“ No, madame ; I am the gentleman you are looking 
for.” 

“ The gentleman she was look — ’’her pride resented 
the fact. “ Me ! ” — thought she — “ I am the lady whom, 
I have not a doubt, you have been longing to meet ever 
since the ball ; ” but her look was unmoved gravity. 
She touched her handkerchief to her lips and handed 
him the rent notice. 

“ I received that from your' office the Monday before 
last.” 

There was a slight emphasis in the announcement of 
the time ; it was the day of the run over. 

Honord Grandissime, stopping with the rent-notice 
only half unfolded, saw the advisability of calling up all 
the resources of his sagacity and wit in order to answer 
wisely ; and as they answered his call a brighter nobility 
so overspread face and person that Aurora inwardly ex 
claimed at it even while she exulted in her thrust. 

“ Monday before last ? ” 

She slightly bowed. 


A VERY NATURAL MISTAKE. 1 57 

** A serious misfortune befell me that day,” said M, 
Grandissime. 

Ah ? ” replied the lady, raising her brows with polite 
distress, but you have entirely recovered, I suppose.” 

‘‘ It was I, madame, who that evening caused you 
a mortification for which I fear you will accept no 
apology.” 

On the contrary,” said Aurora, with an air of gen- 
erous protestation, “it is I who should apologize; I 
fear I injured your horse.” 

M. Grandissime only smiled, and opening the rent- 
notice dropped his glance upon it while he said in a pre- 
occupied tone : 

“ My horse is very well, I thank you.” 

But as he read the paper, his face assumed a serious 
air and he seemed to take an unnecessary length of time 
to reach the bottom of it. 

“ He is trying to think how he will get rid of me,” 
thought Aurora ; “ he is making up some pretext with 
which to dismiss me, and when the tenth of March 
comes we shall be put into the street.” 

M. Grandissime extended the letter toward her, but 
she did not lift her hands. 

“ I beg to assure you, madame, I could never have 
permitted this notice to reach you from my office ; I am 
not the Honore Grandissime for whom this is signed.” , 

Aurora smiled in a way to signify clearly that that 
was just the subterfuge she had been anticipating. 
Had she been at home she would have thrown herself, 
face downward, upon the bed ; but she only smiled 
meditatively upward at the picture of an East Indian 
harbor and made an unnecessary re-arrangement of her 
handkerchief under her folded hands. 


158 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


“There are, you know,*’ — began Honor6, with a 
smile which changed the meaning to “You know very 
well there are” — “two Honore Grandissimes. This 
one who sent you this letter is a man of color ” 

“ Oh ! ” exclaimed Aurora, with a sudden malicious 
sparkle. 

, “ If you will entrust this paper to me,” said Honor6, 
quietly, “ I will see him and do now engage that you 
shall have no further trouble about it. Of course, I do 
not mean that I will pay it, myself ; I dare not offer to 
take such a liberty.” 

Then he felt that a warm impulse had carried him a 
step too far. 

Aurora rose up with a refusal as firm as it was silent. 
She neither smiled nor scintillated now, but wore an ex- 
pression of amiable practicality as she presently said, 
receiving back the rent-notice as she spoke : 

“ I thank you, sir, but it might seem strange to him 
to find his notice in the hands of a person who can claim 
no interest in the matter. I shall have to attend to it 
myself.” 

“Ah! little enchantress,” thought her grave-faced 
listener, as he gave attention, “ this, after all — ball and 
all — is the mood in which you look your very, very 
best” — a fact which nobody knew better than the en- 
chantress herself. 

He walked beside her toward the open door leading 
back into the counting-room, and the dozen and more 
clerks, who, each by some ingenuity of his own, man- 
aged to secure a glimpse of them, could not fail to feel 
that they had never before seen quite so fair a couple. 
But she dropped her veil, bowed M. Grandissime a 
polite “ No farther,” and passed out. 


A VERY /STATURAL MISTAKE, 


159 


M. Grandissime walked once up and down his private 
office, gave the door a soft push with his foot and 
lighted a cigar. 

The clerk who had before acted as usher came in and 
handed him a slip of paper with a name written on it. 
M. Grandissime folded it twice, gazed out the window, 
and finally nodded. The clerk disappeared, and Joseph 
Frowenfeld paused an instant in the door and then ad- 
vanced, with a buoyant good-morning. 

*‘Good-morning,” responded M. Grandissime. 

He smiled and extended his hand, yet there was a 
mechanical and preoccupied air that was not what Jo- 
seph felt justified in expecting. 

“ How can I serve you, Mr. Frhowenfeld ? ’’ ask«d 
the merchant, glancing through into the counting-room. 
His coldness was almost all in Joseph’s imagination, but 
to the apothecary it seemed such that he was nearly in- 
duced to walk away without answering. However, he 
replied : 

“ A young man whom I have employed refers to you 
to recommend him.” 

‘‘ Yes, sir ? Prhay, who is that ? ” 

“ Your cousin, I believe, Mr. Raoul Innerarity.” 

M. Grandissime gave a low, short laugh, and took two 
steps toward his desk. 

‘‘Rhaoul? Oh yes, I rhecommend Rhaoul to you. 
As an assistant in yo’ sto’ ? — the best man you could 
find.” 

“Thank you, sir,” said Joseph, coldly. “Good- 
morning ! ” he added, turning to go. 

“Mr. Frhowenfeld,” said the other, “do you evva 
rhide ? ” 

“ I used to ride,” replied the apothecary, turning, hat 


i6o 


THE GRANDISSIMES, 


in hand, and wondering what such a question could 
mean. 

“ If I send a saddle-hoss to yo do’ on day aftah to* 
morrhow evening at fo’ o’clock, will you rhide out with 
me for-h about a hour-h and a half — just for a little 
pleasu’e ? ” 

Joseph was yet more astonished than before. He 
hesitated, accepted the invitation, and once more said 
good-morning. 


CHAPTER XXI. 


DOCTOR KEENE RECOVERS HIS BULLET. 

It early attracted the apothecary’s notice, in observing 
the civilization around him, that it kept the flimsy false 
bottoms in its social errors only by incessant reiteration. 
As he re-entered the shop, dissatisfied with himself for 
accepting M. Grandissime’s invitation to ride, he knew 
by the fervent words which he overheard from the lips 
of his employee that the f. m. c. had been making one 
of his reconnoisances, and possibly had ventured in to 
inquire for his tenant. 

I t’ink, me, dat hanny w’ite man is a gen’leman ; 
but I don’t care if a man are good like a h-angel, if ’e 
har not pu’e w’ite, ’ow can ’e be a gen'leman ? ” 

Raoul’s words were addressed to a man who, as he 
rose up and handed Frowenfeld a note, ratified the 
Creole’s sentiment by a spurt of tobacco juice and an 
affirmative ‘‘ Hm-m.” 

The note was a lead-pencil scrawl, without date. 

“Dear Joe ; Come and see me some time this evening. I am on my 
back in bed. Want your help in a little matter. 

Yours, 

Keene. 

I have found out who ” 

Frowenfeld pondered : I have found out who 

” Ah ! Doctor Keene had found out who stabbed 


A-gricola. 


i 62 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


Some delays occurred in the afternoon, but toward sun- 
set the apothecary dressed and went out. From the doc- 
tor’s bedside in the rue St. Louis, if not delayed beyond 
all expectation, he would proceed to visit the ladies at 
Number 19 rue Bienville. The air was growing cold and 
threatening bad weather. 

He found the Doctor prostrate, wasted, hoarse, cross, 
and almost too weak for speech. He could only whisper, 
as his friend approached his pillow : 

** These vile lungs ! ” 

** Hemorrhage ? ” 

The invalid held up three small, freckled fingers. 

Joseph dared not show pity in his gaze, but it seemed 
savage not to express some feeling, so after standing a 
moment he began to say : 

I am very sorry 

‘‘You needn’t bother yourself! ” whispered the Doc- 
tor, who lay frowning upward. By and by he whispered 
again. 

Frowenfeld bent his ear, and the little man, so merry 
when well, repeated, in a savage hiss : 

“ Sit down 1 ” 

It was some time before he again broke the silence. 

“ Tell you what I want — you to do — for me.” 

Well, sir ” 

“Hold on!” gasped the invalid, shutting his eyes 
with impatience, — “ till I get through.” 

He lay a little while motionless, and then drew from 
under his pillow a wallet, and from the wallet a pistol- 
ball. 

“ Took that out — a badly neglected wound — last day I 
saw you.” Here a pause, an appalling cough, and by 
and by a whisper : “knew the bullet in an instant.” He 


DOCTOR KEENE RECOVERS HIS BULLET. 1 63 

smiled wearily. Peculiar size.” He made a feeble 
motion. Frowenfeld guessed the meaning of it and 
handed him a pistol from a small table. The ball slipped 
softly home. “Refused two hundred dollars — those 
pistols ” — with a sigh and closed eyes. By and by again 
— “ Patient had smart fever — but it will be gone — time 
you get — there. Want you to — take care — t’ I get up.” 

“ But, Doctor ” 

The sick man turned away his face with a petulant 
frown ; but presently, with an effort at self-control, 
brought it back and whispered : 

“You mean you — not physician ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ No. No more are half — doc’s. You can do it. 
Simple gun-shot wound in the shoulder.” A rest. 
“Pretty wound; ranges” — he gave up the effort to 
describe it. “ You’ll see it.” Another rest. “ You see 
— this matter has been kept quiet so far. I don’t want 
any one — else to know — anything about it.” He sighed 
audibly and looked as though he had gone to sleep, but 
whispered again, with his eyes closed — “ ’specially on 
culprit’s own account.” 

Frowenfeld was silent : but the invalid was waiting for 
an answer, and, not getting it, stirred peevishly. 

“ Do you wish me to go to-night ? ” asked the apothe- 
cary. 

“ To-morrow morning. Will you ? ” 

“ Certainly, Doctor.” 

The invalid lay quite still for several minutes, looking 
steadily at his friend, and finally let a faint smile play 
about his mouth, — a wan reminder of his habitual 
roguery. 

“ Good boy,” he whispered. 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


164 

Frowenfeld rose and straightened the bed-clothes, took 
a few steps about the room, and finally returned. The 
Doctor’s restless eye had followed him at every move- 
ment. 

You’ll go ? ” 

‘‘ Yes,” replied the apothecary, hat in hand; where 
is it ? ” 

Corner Bienville and Bourbon, — upper river corner. 
— yellow one-story house, door-steps on street. You 
know the house ? ” 

‘‘ I think I do.” 

‘^Good-night. Here!— I wish you would send that 
black girl in here — as you go out — make me better fire 
— Joe I ” the call was a ghostly whisper. 

Frowenfeld paused in the door. 

“ You don’t mind my — bad manners, Joe ? ” 

The apothecary gave one of his infrequent smiles. 

“No, Doctor.” 

He started toward No. 19 rue Bienville ; but a light, 
cold sprinkle set in, and he turned back toward his shop. 
No sooner had the rain got him there than it stopped, as 
rain sometimes will do. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


WARS WITHIN THE BREAST. 

The next morning came in frigid and gray. The un- 
seasonable numerals which the meteorologist recorded 
in his tables might have provoked a superstitious lover 
of better weather to suppose that Monsieur Danny, the 
head imp of discord, had been among the aerial currents. 
The passionate southern sky, looking down and seeing 
some six thousand to seventy-five hundred of her favorite 
children disconcerted and shivering, tried in vain, for 
two hours, to smile upon them with a little frozen sum 
shine, and finally burst into tears. 

In thus giving way to despondency, it is sad to say, 
the sky was closely imitating the simultaneous behavior of 
Aurora Nancanou. Never was pretty lady in cheerier 
mood than that in which she had come home from 
Honor^’s counting-room. Hard would it be to find the 
material with which to build again the castles-in-air that 
she founded upon two or three little discoveries there 
made. Should she tell them to Clotilde ? Ah ! and for 
what? No, Clotilde was a dear daughter — ha! few 
women were capable of having such a daughter as 
Clotilde ; but there were things about which she was 
entirely too scrupulous. So, when she came in from 
that errand, profoundly satisfied that she would in future 
hear no more about the rent than she might choose to 


THE GRANDISSIMES, 


l66 

hear, she had been too shrewd to expose herself to hef 
daughter’s catechising. She would save her little re- 
velations for disclosure when they might be used to 
advantage. As she threw her bonnet upon the bed, she 
exclaimed, in a tone of gentle and wearied reproach : 

*‘Why did you not remind me that M. Honor6 Gran- 
dissime, that precious somebody-great, has the honor to 
rejoice in a quadroon half-brother of the same illustrious 
name ? Why did you not remind me, eh ? ” 

“Ah ! and you know it as well as A, B, C,” playfully 
retorted Clotilde. 

“ Well, guess which one is our landlord ? ” 

** Which one ? ” 

Ma foil how do I know ? I had to wait a shameful 
long time to see Monsieur le prince^ — ^just because I am 
a De Grapion, I know. When at last I saw him, he 
says, ‘ Madame, this is the other Honore Grandissime.’ 
There, you see we are the victims of a conspiracy ; if I 
go to the other, he will send me back to the first. But, 
Clotilde, my darling,” cried the beautiful speaker, beam- 
ingly, “ dismiss all fear and care ; we shall have no more 
trouble about it.” 

And how, indeed, do you know that ? ” 

Something tells it to me in my ear. I feel it ! 
Trust in Providence, my child. Look at me, how happy 
I am ; but you — you never trust in Providence. That 
is why we have so much trouble, — because you don’t 
trust in Providence. Oh ! lam so hungry, let us have 
dinner.” 

What sort of a person is M. Grandissime in his ap- 
pearance ? ” asked Clotilde, over their feeble excuse for 
a dinner. 

What sort ? Do you imagine I had nothing better 


fVA/^S WITHIN THE BEE A ST. 1 6 / 

to do than notice whether a Grandissime is good-looking 

or not ? For all I know to the contrary, he is some 

more rice, please, my dear. 

But this light-heartedness did not last long. It was 
based on an unutterable secret, all her own, about which 
she still had trembling doubts ; this, too, notwithstanding 
her consultation of the dark oracles. She was going to 
stop that. In the long run, these charms and spells them- 
selves bring bad luck. Moreover, the practice, indulged 
in to excess, was wicked, and she had promised Clotilde, 
— that droll little saint, — to resort to them no more. 
Hereafter, she should do nothing of the sort, except, to 
be sure, to take such ordinary precautions against mis 
fortune as casting upon the floor a little of whatever she 
might be eating or drinking to propitiate M. Assonquer. 
She would have liked, could she have done it without 
fear of detection, to pour upon the front door-sill an 
oblation of beer sweetened with black molasses to Papa 
Lebat (who keeps the invisible keys of all the doors that 
admits suitors, but she dared not ; and then, the hound 
would surely have licked it up. Ah me ! was she for- 
getting that she was a widow ? 

She was in poor plight to meet the all but icy gray 
morning ; and, to make her misery still greater, she 
found, on dressing, that an accident had overtaken her, 
which she knew to be a trustworthy sign of love grown 
cold. She had lost — alas ! how can w'e communicate it 
in English ! — a small piece of lute-string ribbon, about 
so long^ which she used for — not a necktie exactly, 
but 

And she hunted and hunted, and couldn’t bear to give 
up the search, and sat down to breakfast and ate nothing, 
and rose up and searched again (not that she cared for 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


1 68 

the omen), and struck the hound with the broom, and 
broke the broom, and hunted again, and looked out the 
front window, and saw the rain beginning to fall, and 
dropped into a chair — crying “ Oh ! Clotilde, my child, 
my child ! the rent collector will be here Saturday and 
turn us into the street ! ’ and so fell a-weeping. 

A little tear-letting lightened her unrevealable burden, 
and she rose, rejoicing that Clotilde had happened to be 
out of eye-and-ear-shot. The scanty fire in the fire- 
place was ample to warm the room ; the fire within her 
made it too insufferably hot ! Rain or no rain, she 
parted the window-curtains and lifted the sash. What 
a mark for Love’s arrow she was, as, at the window, she 
stretched her two arms upward ! And, right so,” who 
should chance to come cantering by, the big drops of 
rain pattering after him, but the knightiest man in that 
old town, and the fittest to perfect the fine old-fashioned 
poetry of the scene ! 

“ Clotilde,” said Aurora, turning from her mirror, 
whither she had hastened to see if her face showed signs 
of tears (Clotilde was entering the room), “we shall 
never be turned out of this house by Honore Grandis- 
sime ! ” 

“ Why ? ” asked Clotilde, stopping short in the floor, 
forgetting Aurora’s trust in Providence, and expecting 
to here that M. Grandissime had been found dead in his 
bed. 

“ Because I saw him just now ; he rode by on horse- 
back. A man with that noble face could never do such 
a thing 1 ” 

The astonished Clotilde looked at her mother search- 
ingly. This sort of speech about a Grandissime ? But 
Aurora was the picture of innocence. 


fVA/^S WITHIN THE BREAST. 1 69 

Clotilde uttered a derisive laugh. 

Impertuiente f exclaimed the other, laboring not 
to join in it. 

‘‘Ah-h-h!” cried Clotilde, in the same mood, and 
what face had he when he wrote that letter ? ” 

“ What face ? ” 

“Yes, what face ? ” 

“ I do not know what face you mean,” said Aurora. 

“ What face,” repeated Clotilde, “ had Monsieur PIo- 
nor^ de Grandissime on the day that he wrote ” 

“ Ah, f-fah ! ” cried Aurora, and turned away, “ you 
don’t know what you are talking about! You make 
me wish sometimes that I were dead ! ” 

Clotilde had gone and shut down the sash, as it be- 
gan to rain hard and blow. As she was turning away, 
her eye was attracted by an object at a distance. 

“ What is it ? ” asked Aurora, from a seat before the 
fire. 

“ Nothing,” said Clotilde, weary of the sensational, — . 
“ a man in the rain.” 

It was the apothecary of the rue Royale, turning 
from that street toward the rue Bourbon, and bowing 
his head against the swirling norther. 

8 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


FROWENFELD KEEPS HIS APPOINTMENT. 

Doctor Keene, his ilhhumor slept off, lay in bed in 
a quiescent state of great mental enjoyment. At times 
he would smile and close his eyes, open them again and 
murmur to himself, and turn his head languidly and 
smile again. And when the rain and wind, all tangled 
together, came against the window with a whirl and a 
slap, his smile broadened almost to laughter. 

“ He’s in it,” he murmured, “ he’s just reaching there. 
I would give fifty dollars to see him when he first gets 
into the house and sees where he is.” 

As this wish was finding expression on the lips of the 
little sick man, Joseph Frowenfeld was making room on 
a narrow door-step for the outward opening of a pair 
of small batten doors, upon which he had knocked with 
the vigorous haste of a man in the rain. As they parted, 
he hurriedly helped them open, darted within, heedless 
of the odd black shape which shuffled out of his way, 
wheeled and clapped them shut again, swung down the 
bar and then turned, and with the good-natured face 
that properly goes with a ducking, looked to see where 
he was. 

One object — around which everything else instantly 
became nothing — set his gaze. On the high bed, whose 
hangings of blue we have already described, silently re* 


FROWENFELD KEEPS HIS APPOINTMENT. I/I 

garding the intruder with a pair of eyes that sent an icy 
thrill through him and fastened him where he stood, lay 
Palmyre Philosophe. Her dress was a long, snowy 
morning-gown, wound loosely about at the waist with a 
cord and tassel of scarlet silk ; a bright-colored woollen 
shawl covered her from the waist down, and a necklace 
of red coral heightened to its utmost her untamable 
beauty. 

An instantaneous indignation against Doctor Keene 
set the face of the speechless apothecary on fire, and 
this, being as instantaneously comprehended by the 
philosophe, was the best of introductions. Yet, her 
gaze did not change. 

The Congo negress broke the spell with a bristling 
protest, all in African b*s and k's, but hushed and drew 
off at a single word of command from her mistress. 

In Frowenfeld’s mind an angry determination was 
taking shape, to be neither trifled with nor contemned. 
And this again the quadroon discerned, before he was 
himself aware of it. 

Doctor Keene” he began, but stopped, so um 

comfortable were her eyes. 

She did not stir or reply. 

Then he bethought him with a start, and took off his 
dripping hat. 

At this a perceptible sparkle of imperious approval 
shot along her glance ; it gave the apothecary speech. 

''The doctor is sick, and he asked me to dress your 
wound.” 

She made the slightest discernible motion of the head, 
remained for a moment silent, and then, still with the 
same eye, motioned her hand toward a chair near a 
comfortable fire. 


1/2 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


He sat down. It would be well to dry himself. He 
drew near the hearth and let his gaze fall into the fire. 
When he presently lifted his eyes and looked full upon 
the woman with a steady, candid glance, she was re- 
garding him with apparent coldness, but with secret dili- 
gence and scrutiny, and a yet more inward and secret 
surprise and admiration. Hard rubbing was bringing 
out the grain of the apothecary. But she presently 
suppressed the feeling. She hated men. 

But Frowenfeld, even while his eyes met hers, could 
not resent her hostility. This monument of the shame 
of two races — this poisonous blossom of crime growing 
out of crime — this final, unanswerable white man’s ac- 
cuser — this would-be murderess — what ranks and com- 
panies would have to stand up in the Great Day with 
her and answer as accessory before the fact ! He looked 
again into the fire. 

The patient spoke : 

Eh Mich^f' Her look was severe, but less 
aggressive. The shuffle of the old negress’s feet was 
heard and she appeared bearing warm and cold water 
and fresh bandages ; after depositing them she tarried. 

“ Your fever is gone,” said Frowenfeld, standing by 
the bed. He had laid his fingers on her wrist. She 
brushed them off and once more turned full upon him 
the cold hostility of her passionate eyes. 

The apothecary, instead of blushing, turned pale. 

‘‘You— ”he was going to say, You insult me;” 
but his lips came tightly together. Two big cords ap- 
peared between his brows, and his blue eyes spoke for 
him. Then, as the returning blood rushed even to his 
forehead, he said, speaking his words one by one : 

“ Please understand that you must trust me.” 


FROWENFELD KEEPS HIS APPOINTMENT. 1/3 

She may not have understood his English, but she 
comprehended, nevertheless. She looked up fixedly 
for a moment, then passively closed her eyes. Then 
she turned, and Frowenfeld put out one strong arm, 
helped her to a sitting posture on the side of the bed 
and drew the shawl about her. 

Zizi," she said, and the negress, who had stood per- 
fectly still since depositing the water and bandages, 
came forward and proceeded to bare the philosophe’s 
superb shoulder. As Frowenfeld again put forward his 
hand, she lifted her own as if to prevent him, but he 
kindly and firmly put it away and addressed himself 
with silent diligence to his task ; and by the time he had 
finished, his womanly touch, his commanding gentle- 
ness, his easy despatch, had inspired Palmyre not only 
with a sense of safety, comfort, and repose, but with a 
pleased wonder. 

This woman had stood all her life with dagger drawn, 
on the defensive against what certainly was to her an 
unmerciful world. With possibly one exception, the 
man now before her was the only one she had ever en- 
countered whose speech and gesture were clearly keyed 
to that profound respect which is woman’s first, founda- 
tion claim on man. And yet by inexorable decree, she 
belonged to what we used to call the happiest people 
under the sun.” We ought to stop saying that. 

So far as Palmyre knew, the entire masculine wing of 
the mighty and exalted race, three-fourths of whose 
blood bequeathed her none of its prerogatives, regarded 
her as legitimate prey. The man before her did not. 
There lay the fundamental difference that, in her sight, as 
soon as she discovered it, glorified him. Before this as- 
surance the cold fierceness of her eyes gave way, and a 


174 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


friendlier light from them rewarded the apothecary’s 
final touch. He called for more pillows, made a nest of 
them, and, as she let herself softly into it, directed his 
next consideration toward his hat and the door. 

It was many an hour after he had backed out into the 
trivial remains of the rain-storm before he could replace 
with more tranquillizing images the vision of the philoso- 
phe reclining among her pillows, in the act of making 
that uneasy movement of her fingers upon the collar 
button of her robe, which women make when they are 
uncertain about the perfection of their dishabille, and 
giving her inaudible adieu with the majesty of an em- 
press. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


FROWENFELD MAKES AN ARGUMENT. 

On the afternoon of the same day on which Frowen- 
feld visited the house of the philosophe, the weather, 
which had been so unfavorable to his late plans, 
changed ; the rain ceased, the wind drew around to the 
south, and the barometer promised a clear sky. Where- 
fore he decided to leave his business, when he should 
have made his evening weather notes, to the care of M. 
Raoul Innerarity, and venture to test both Mademoiselle 
Clotilde’s repellent attitude and Aurora’s seeming cor- 
diality at No. 19 rue Bienville. 

Why he should go was a question which the apothe- 
cary felt himself but partially prepared to answer. 
What necessity called him, what good was to be ef- 
fected, what was to happen next, were points he would 
have liked to be clear upon. That he should be going 
merely because he was invited to come — merely for the 
pleasure of breathing their atmosphere — that he should 
be supinely gravitating toward them — this conclusion he 
positively could not allow ; no, no ; the love of books 
and the fear of women alike protested. 

True, they were a part of that book which is pro 
nounced “the proper study of mankind,” — indeed, that 
was probably the reason which he sought : he was go 
ing to contemplate them as a frontispiece to that un 


THE GRANDISSIMES, 


176 

writeable volume which he had undertaken to con. 
Also, there was a charitable motive. Doctor Keene, 
months before, had expressed a deep concern regarding 
their lack of protection and even of daily provision ; he 
must quietly look into that. Would some unforeseen 
circumstance shut him off this evening again from this 
very proper use of time and opportunity ? 

As he was sitting at the table in his back room, regis- 
tering his sunset observations, and wondering what 
would become of him if Aurora should be out and that 
other in, he was startled by a loud, deep voice exclaim- 
ing, close behind him : 

“ Eh^ bien ! Monsieur le Professeur! ” 

Frowenfeld knew by the tone, before he looked behind 
him, that he would find M. Agricola Fusilier very red 
in the face ; and when he looked, the only qualification 
he could make was that the citizen’s countenance was not 
so ruddy as the red handkerchief in which his arm was 
hanging. 

“ What have you there ? ” slowly continued the patri- 
arch, taking his free hand off his fettered arm and laying 
it upon the page as Frowenfeld hurriedly rose, and en- 
deavored to shut the book. 

“ Some private memoranda,” answered the metereolo- 
gist, managing to get one page turned backward, red- 
dening with confusion and indignation, and noticing that 
Agricola’s spectacles were upside down. 

Private ! Eh? No, such thing, sir! Professor 
Frowenfeld, allow me ” (a classic oath) to say to your 
face, sir, that you are the most brilliant and the most 
valuable man — of your years — in afflicted Louisiana ! 
Hal” (reading): ‘ Morning observation; Cathedral 

clock, 7 A. M. Thermometer 70 degrees.’ Ha 1 * Hy- 


FROIVENFELD MAKES AN ARGUMENT. 1 77 

grometer 1 5 ’—but this is not to-day’s weather ? Ah ! 
no. Ha! ‘Barometer 30.380.’ Ha! ‘Sky cloudy, 
dark ; wind, south, light.’ Ha ! ‘ River rising.’ Ha ! 

Professor Frowenfeld, when will you give your splendid 
services to your section? You must tell me, my son, 
for I ask you, my son, not from curiosity, but out of im- 
patient interest.” 

“ I cannot say that I shall ever publish my tables,” re- 
plied the “ son,” pulling at the book. 

“ Then, sir, in the name of Louisiana,” thundered the 
old man, clinging to the book, “ I can ! They shall be 
published ! Ah ! yes, dear Frowenfeld. The book, of 
course, will be in French, eh ? You would not so affront 
the most sacred prejudices of the noble people to whom 
you owe everything as to publish it in English ? You — 
ah ! have we torn it ? ” 

“ I do not write French,” said the apothecary, laying 
the torn edges together. 

“ Professor Frowenfeld, men are born for each other. 
What do I behold before me ? I behold before me, 
in the person of my gifted young friend, a supplement 
to myself! Why has Nature strengthened the soul of 
Agricola to hold the crumbling fortress of this body 
until these eyes — which were once, my dear boy, as 
proud and piercing as the battled steed’s — have become 
dim?” 

Joseph’s insurmountable respect for gray hairs kept 
him standing, but he did not respond with any conjecture 
as to Nature’s intentions, and there was a stern silence. 

The crumbling fortress resumed, his voice pitched low 
like the beginning of the long roll. He knew Nature’s 
design. 

“ It was in order that you, Professor Frow'enfeld, 
8 * 


THE GRANDISSIMES, 


178 

might become my vicar ! Your book shall be in French 1 
We must give it a wide scope ! It shall contain valuable 
geographical, topographical, biographical, and historical 
notes. It shall contain complete lists of all the officials 
in the province (I don’t say territory, I say province) 
with their salaries and perquisites ; ah ! we will expose 
that ! And — ha ! I will write some political essays for 
it. Raoul shall illustrate it. Honore shall give you 
money to publish it. Ah ! Professor Frowenfeld, the star 
of your fame is rising out of the waves of oblivion ! Come 
— I dropped in purposely to ask you — come across the 
street and take a glass of taffia with Agricola Fusilier.” 

This crowning honor the apothecary was insane enough 
to decline, and Agricola went away with many profes- 
sions of endearment, but secretly offended because Joseph 
had not asked about his wound. 

All the same the apothecary, without loss of time, de- 
parted for the yellow-washed cottage. No. 19 rue Bien- 
ville. 

“To-morrow, at four P. M.,” he said to himself, “if 
the weather is favorable, I ride with M. Grandissime.” 

He almost saw his books and instruments look up at 
him reproachfully. 

The ladies were at home. Aurora herself opened the 
door, and Clotilde came forward from the bright fire- 
place with a cordiality never before so unqualified. 
There was something about these ladies — in their sim- 
ple, but noble grace, in their half-Gallic, half-classic 
beauty, in a jocund buoyancy mated to an amiable dig- 
nity — that made them appear to the scholar as though 
they had just bounded into life from the garlanded pro- 
cession of some old fresco. The resemblance was not a 
little helped on by the costume of the late Revolution 


FR O WENFELD MAKES AN ARC UMENT. 1 79 

(most acceptably chastened and belated by the distance 
from Paris). Their black hair, somewhat heavier on 
Clotilde’s head, where it rippled once or twice, was 
knotted en Grecque, and adorned only with the spoils of 
a nosegay given to Clotilde by a chivalric small boy in 
the home of her music scholar. 

We was expectin’ you since several days,” said Clo- 
tilde, as the three sat down before the fire, Frowenfeld 
in a cushioned chair whose moth-holes had been care- 
fully darned. 

Frowenfeld intimated, with tolerable composure, that 
matters beyond his control had delayed his coming be- 
yond his intention. 

‘‘You gedd’n’ ridge,” said Aurora, dropping her 
wrists across each other. 

Frowenfeld, for once, laughed outright, and it seemed 
so odd in him to do so that both the ladies followed his 
example. The ambition to be rich had never entered 
his thought, although in an unemotional, German way, 
he was prospering in a little city where wealth was daily 
pouring in, and a man had only to keep step, so to say, 
to march into possessions. 

“ You bought to ’ave a mo’ larger sto’ an’ some 
clerque,” pursued Aurora. 

The apothecary answered that he was contemplating 
the enlargement of his present place or removal to a 
roomier, and that he had already employed an assistant. 

“ Oo it is, ’Sieur Frowenfel’ ? ” 

Clotilde turned toward the questioner a remonstrative 
glance. 

“ His name,” replied Frowenfeld, betraying a slight 
embarrassment, “is — Innerarity ; Mr. Raoul Innera- 
rity ; he is ” 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


iSo 

Ee pain’ dad pigtu’ w’at ’angin’ in yo’ window?” 

Clotilda’s remonstrance rose to a slight movement and 
a murmur. 

Frowenfeld answered in the affirmative, and possibly 
betrayed the faint shadow of a smile. The response was 
a peal of laughter from both ladies. 

He is an excellent drug clerk,” said Frowenfeld, de- 
fensively. 

Whereat Aurora laughed again, leaning over and 
touching Clotilde’s knee with one finger. 

“ An’ excellen’ drug cl’ — ha, ha, ha ! oh ! ” 

You muz podden uz, M’sieu’ Frowenfel’,” said Clo- 
tilde, with forced gravity. 

Aurora sighed her participation in the apology ; and, 
a few moments later, the apothecary and both ladies 
(the one as fond of the abstract as the other two were 
ignorant of the concrete) were engaged in an animated, 
running discussion on art, society, climate, education, — 
all those large, secondary desiderata which seem of first 
importance to young ambition and secluded beauty, 
flying to and fro among these subjects with all the 
liveliness and uncertainty of a game of pussy-wants- 
a-corner. 

Frowenfeld had never before spent such an hour. At 
its expiration, he had so well held his own against both 
the others, that the three had settled down to this sort 
of entertainment : Aurora would make an assertion, or 
Clotilde would ask a question ; and Frowenfeld, moved 
by that frankness and ardent zeal for truth which had en- 
listed the early friendship of Doctor Keene, amused and 
attracted Honore Grandissime, won the confidence of 
the f. m. c., and tamed the fiery distrust and enmity of 
Palmyre, would present his opinions without the thought 


FR O WENFELD MAKES AN AR G UMENT. 1 8 1 

of a reservation either in himself or his hearers. On 
their part, they would sit in deep attention, shielding 
their faces from the fire, and responding to enunciations 
directly contrary to their convictions with an occasional 
“yes-seh,”or ** ceddenly,” or “of coze,” or, — prettier 
affirmation still, — a solemn drooping of the eyelids, a 
slight compression of the lips, and a low, slow declina- 
tion of the head. 

“ The bane of all Creole art-effort” — (we take up the 
apothecary’s words at a point where Clotilde was lean- 
ing forward and slightly frowning in an honest attempt 
to comprehend his condensed English) — “ the bane of all 
Creole art-effort, so far as I have seen it, is amateurism.” 

“ Amateu — ” murmured Clotilde, a little beclouded 
on the main word and distracted by a French difference 
of meaning, but planting an elbow on one knee in the 
genuineness of her attention, and responding with a 
bow. 

“ That is to say,” said Frowenfeld, apologizing for the 
homeliness of his further explanation by a smile, “ a kind 
of ambitious indolence that lays very large eggs, but 
can neither see the necessity for building a nest before- 
hand, nor command the patience to hatch the eggs after- 
ward.” 

“ Of coze,” said Aurora. 

“ It is a great pity,” said the sermonizer, looking at 
the face of Clotilde, elongated in the brass andiron ; 
and, after a pause : “ Nothing on earth can take the 
place of hard and patient labor. But that, in this com- 
munity, is not esteemed ; most sorts of it are con- 
temned ; the humbler sorts are despised, and the higher 
are regarded with mingled patronage and commiser 
ation. Most of those who come to my shop with their 


i 82 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


efforts at art, hasten to explain, either that they are 
merely seeking pastime, or else that they are driven to 
their course by want ; and if I advise them to take their 
work back and finish it, they take it back and never re- 
turn. Industry is not only despised, but has been de- 
graded and disgraced, handed over into the hands of 
African savages.” 

** Doze Creole’ is lezzy"' said Aurora. 

‘‘ That is a hard word to apply to those who do not 
consciously deserve it,” said Frowenfeld ; “but if they 
could only wake up to the fact, — find it out them- 
selves ” 

“ Ceddenly,” said Clotilde. 

“ ’Sieur Frowenfel’,” said Aurora, leaning her head 
on one side, “ some pipple thing it is doze climade ; ’ow 
you lag doze climade ? ” 

“ I do not suppose,” replied the visitor, “ there is a 
more delightful climate in the world.” 

“ Ah-h-h ! ” — both ladies at once, in a low, gracious 
tone of acknowledgment. 

“ I thing Louisiana is a paradize-me ! ” said Aurora. 
“ W’ere you goin’ fin’ sudge a h-air ? ” She respired a 
sample of it. “ W’ere you goin’ fin’ sudge a so ridge 
groun’ ? De weed’ in my bag yard is twenny-five feet 
’igh!” 

“ Ah ! maman ! ” 

“Twenty-six!” said Aurora, correcting herself. 
“ W’ere you fin’ sudge a reever lag dad Mississippi ? 
On dity' she said, turning to Clotilde, ^^que ses eaux out 
la propri^td de contribuer mime h multiplier V espece hu- 
maine — ha, ha, ha I ” 

Clotilde turned away an unmoved countenance to heai 
Frowenfeld. 


FR O WENFELD MAKES AN ARC UMENT. 1 8 3 

Frowenfeld had contracted a habit of falling into 
meditation whenever the French language left him out 
of the conversation. 

“ Yes,” he said, breaking a contemplative pause, 

the climate is too comfortable and the soil too rich, — 
though I do not think it is entirely on their account that 
the people who enjoy them are so sadly in arrears to the 
civilized world.” He blushed with the fear that his talk 
was bookish, and felt grateful to Clotilde for seeming to 
understand his speeeh. 

“ W’ad you fin’ de rizzon is, ’Sieur Frowenfel’ ? ” she 
asked. 

“ I do not wish to philosophize,” he answered. 

Mais, go hon.” MaiSy go ahade,” said both 
ladies, settling themselves. 

“It is largely owing,” exclaimed Frowenfeld, with 
sudden fervor, “ to a defective organization of society, 
which keeps this community, and will continue to keep 
it for an indefinite time to come, entirely unprepared 
and disinclined to follow the course of modern thought.” 

“ Of coze,” murmured Aurora, who had lost her 
bearings almost at the first word. 

“ One great general subject of thought now is human 
rights, — universal human rights. The entire literature 
of the world is becoming tinctured with contradictions 
of the dogmas upon which society in this section is built. 
Human rights is, of all subjects, the one upon which this 
community is most violently determined to hear no dis- 
cussion. It has pronounced that slavery and caste are 
right, and sealed up the whole subject. What, then, will 
they do with the world’s literature ? They will coldly 
djcline to look at it, and will become, more and more as 
the world moves on, a comparatively illiterate people.” 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


184 

“ Bud, ’Sieur Frowenfel’,” said Clotilde, as Frowen- 
feld paused — Aurora was stunned to silence, — “ de 
Unitee State’ goin’ pud doze nigga’ free, aind it ? ** 

Frowenfeld pushed his hair hard back. He was in 
the stream now, and might as well go through. 

“ I have heard that charge made, even by some 
Americans. I do not know. But there is a slavery 
that no legislation can abolish, — the slavery of caste. 
That, like all the slaveries on earth, is a double bondage. 
And what a bondage it is which compels a community, 
in order to preserve its established tyrannies, to walk 
behind the rest of the intelligent world ! What a bond- 
age is that which incites a people to adopt a system of 
social and civil distinctions, possessing all the enormities 
and none of the advantages of those systems which 
Europe is learning to despise ! This system, moreover, 
is only kept up by a flourish of weapons. We have here 
what you may call an armed aristocracy. The class over 
which these instruments of main force are held is chosen 
for its servility, ignorance, and cowardice ; hence, indo- 
lence in the ruling class. When a man’s social or civil 
standing is not dependent on his knowing how to read, 
he is not likely to become a scholar.” 

“Of coze,” said Aurora, with a pensive respiration, 
“ I thing id is doze climade,” and the apothecary stop- 
ped, as a man should who finds himself unloading large 
philosophy in a little parlor. 

“ I thing, me, dey bought to pud doze quadroon* 
free ? ” It was Clotilde who spoke, ending with the 
rising inflection to indicate the tentative character of this 
daringly premature declaration. 

Frowenfeld did not answer hastily, 

“ The quadroons,” said he, “ want a great deal more 


FRO WENFELD MARIES AN ARC UMENT. 1 8 5 

than mere free papers can secure them. Emancipation 
before the law, though it may be a right which man has 
no right to withhold, is to them little more than a mock- 
ery until they achieve emancipation in the minds and 
good will of the people — ‘ the people,’ did I say ? I 
mean the ruling class.” He stopped again. One must 
inevitably feel a little silly, setting up tenpins for ladies 
who are too polite, even if able, to bowl them down. 

Aurora and the visitor began to speak simultaneously ; 
both apologized, and Aurora said : 

“ ’Sieur Frowenfel’, w’en I was a lill’ girl,” — and 
Frowenfeld knew that he was going to hear the story of 
Palmyre. Clotilde moved, with the obvious intention 
to mend the fire. Aurora asked, in French, why she 
did not call the cook to do it, and Frowenfeld said, 
Let me,” — threw on some wood, and took a seat 
nearer Clotilde. Aurora had the floor. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


AURORA AS A HISTORIAN. 

Alas ! the phonograph was invented three-quarters 
of a century too late. If type could entrap one-half the 
pretty oddities of Aurora’s speech, — the arch, the pathe- 
tic, the grave, the earnest, the matter-of-fact, the ecsta- 
tic tones of her voice, — nay, could it but reproduce the 
movement of her hands, the eloquence of her eyes, or 
the shapings of her mouth, — ah ! but type — even the 
phonograph — is such an inadequate thing 1 Sometimes 
she laughed ; sometimes Clotilde, unexpectedly to her- 
self, joined her ; and twice or thrice she provoked a 
similar demonstration from the ox-like apothecary, — to 
her own intense anusement. Sometimes she shook her 
head in solemn scorn ; and, when Frowenfeld, at a 
certain point where Palmyre’s fate locked hands for a 
time with that of Bras-Coup6, asked a fervid question 
concerning that strange personage, tears leaped into her 
eyes, as she said : 

“ Ah ! ’Sieur Frowenfel’, iv I tra to tell dc sto’y of 
Bras-Coupe, I goin’ to cry lag a lill bebby.” 

The account of the childhood days upon the planta- 
tion at Cannes Brul6e may be passed by. It was early 
in Palmyre’s fifteenth year that that Kentuckian, ‘ mutual 
friend ’ of her master and Agricola, prevailed with M. de 
Grapion to send her to the paternal Grandissime mansion. 


AURORA AS A mSTORIAN. 1 8 / 

— a complimentary gift, through Agricola, to Mademoi- 
selle, his niece, — returnable ten years after date. 

The journey was made in safety ; and, by and by, 
Palmyre was presented to her new mistress. The occa- 
sion was notable. In a great chair in the centre sat the 
grandpere , a Chevalier de Grandissime, whose business 
had narrowed down to sitting on the front veranda and 
wearing his decorations, — the cross of St. Louis being 
one ; on his right. Colonel Numa Grandissime, with one 
arm dropped around Honore, then a boy of Palmyre’s 
age, expecting to be off in sixty days for France ; and 
on the left, with Honor^’s fair sister nestled against her, 

Madame Numa,” as the Creoles would call her, a 
stately woman and beautiful, a great admirer of her 
brother Agricola. (Aurora took pains to explain that 
she received these minutiae from Palmyre herself in later 
years.) One other member of the group was a young 
don of some twenty years’ age, not an inmate of the 
house, but only a cousin of Aurora on her deceased 
mother’s side. To make the affair complete, and as a 
seal to this tacit Grandissime- de-Grapion treaty, this 
sole available representative of the other side ” was 
made a guest for the evening. Like the true Span- 
iard that he was, Don Jos^ Martinez fell deeply in love 
with Honore’s sister. Then there came Agricola lead- 
ing in Palmyre. There were others, for the Grandissime 
mansion was always full of Grandissimes ; but this was 
the central group. 

In this house Palmyre grew to womanhood, retaining 
without interruption the place into which she seemed to 
enter by right of indisputable superiority over all com- 
petitors, — the place of favorite attendant to the sister of 
Honore. Attendant, we say, for servant she never 


i88 


THE GRANDISSIMES, 


seemed. She grew tall, arrowy, lithe, imperial, dili' 
gent, neat, thorough, silent. Her new mistress, though 
scarcely at all her senior, was yet distinctly her mistress ; 
she had that through her Fusilier blood ; experience 
was just then beginning to show that the Fusilier Gran* 
dissime was a superb variety ; she was a mistress one 
could wish to obey. Palmyre loved her, and through 
her contact ceased, for a time at least, to be the pet leo- 
pard she had been at the Cannes Brulee. 

Honore went away to Paris only sixty days after Pal- 
myre entered the house. But even that was not soon 
enough. 

“ ’Sieur Frowenfel’,” said Aurora, in her recital, 
“ Palmyre, she never tole me dad, mais I am shoe, shoe 
dad she fall in love wid Honore Grandissime. 'Sieur 
Frowenfel’, I thing dad Honors Grandissime is one 
bad man, ent it ? Whad you thing, 'Sieur Frowen- 
fel' ? ” 

“ I think, as I said to you the last time, that he is 
one of the best, as I know that he is one of the kindest 
and most enlightened gentlemen in the city," said the 
apothecary. 

Ah, 'Sieur Frowenfel' ! ha, ha ! " 

** That is my conviction.” 

The lady went on with her story. 

** Hanny'ow, I know she continue in love wid 'im all 
doze ten year’ w'at 'e been gone. She baig Mademoi- 
selle Grandissime to wrad dad ledder to my papa to ass 
to kip her two years mo'.” 

Here Aurora carefully omitted that episode which 
Doctor Keene had related to Frowenfeld, — her own 
marriage and removal to Fausse Riviere, the visit of her 
husband to the city, his unfortunate and finally fatal af* 


AURORA AS A HISTORIAN, 1 89 

fair with Agricola, and the surrender of all her land 
and slaves to that successful duellist. 

M. de Grapion, through all that, stood by his engage- 
ment concerning Palmyre ; and, at the end of ten years, 
to his own astonishment, responded favorably to a letter 
from Honore’s sister, irresistible for its goodness, good 
sense, and eloquent pleading, asking leave to detain 
Palmyre two years longer ; but this response came only 
after the old master and his pretty, stricken Aurora had 
wept over it until they were weak and gentle, — and was 
not a response either, but only a silent consent. 

Shortly before the return of Honore — and here it was 
that Aurora took up again the thread of her account — 
while his mother, long- widowed, reigned in the paternal 
mansion, with Agricola for her manager, Bras-Coupe 
appeared. From that advent and the long and varied 
mental sufferings which its consequences brought upon 
her, sprang that second change in Palmyre, which 
made her finally untamable, and ended in a manumis- 
sion, granted her more for fear than for conscience’ sake. 
When Aurora attempted to tell those experiences, 
even leaving Bras-Coupe as much as might be out of the 
recital, she choked with tears at the very start, stopped, 
laughed, and said : 

“ Cest tout — daz all. ’Sieur Frowenfel’, 00 you fine 
dad pigtu’ to loog lag, yonnah, hon de wall ? ” 

She spoke as if he might have overlooked it, though 
twenty times, at least, in the last hour, she had seen him 
glance at it. 

“ It is a good likeness,” said the apothecary, turning 
to Clotilde, yet showing himself somewhat puzzled in 
the matter of the costume. 

The ladies laughed. 


190 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


“ Daz ma grade-gran’-mamma,” said Clotilde. 

“ Dass one fille h la casseUCy** S3iid Aurora, my 
gran’-muzzah ; mais, 2 id de sem tarn id is Clotilde."* 
She touched her daughter under the chin with a ringed 
finger. Clotilde is my gran’-mamma.*’ 

Frowenfeld rose to go. 

' “ You muz come again, ’Sieur FrowenfelV’ said both 
ladies, in a breath. 

What could he say ? 


CHAPTER XXVL 


A RIDE AND A RESCUE. 

Douane or Bienville ? 

Such was the choice presented by Honore Grandis- 
sime to Joseph Frowenfeld, as the former on a lively 
brown colt and the apothecary on a nervy chestnut, fell 
into a gentle, preliminary trot while yet in the rue 
Royale, looked after by that great admirer of both, Raoul 
Innerarity. 

“ Douane ? ” said Frowenfeld. (It was the street we 
call Custom-House.) 

“ It has mud-holes,” objected Honore. 

Well, then, the rue du Canal ? ” 

The canal — I can smell it from here. Why not rue 
Bienville ? ” 

Frowenfeld said he did not know. (We give the 
statement for what it is worth.) 

Notice their route. A spirit of perversity seems to 
have entered into the very topography of this quarter. 
They turned up the rue Bienville (up is toward the 
river) ; reaching the levee, they took their course up the 
shore of the Mississippi (almost due south), and broke 
into a lively gallop on the Tchoupitoulas road, which in 
those days skirted that margin of the river nearest the 
sunsetting, namely, the eastern bank. 

Conversation moved sluggishly for a time, halting 


THE GRANDISSIMES, 


192 

upon trite topics or swinging easily from polite inquiry 
to mild affirmation, and back again. They were men 
of thought, these two, and one of them did not fully 
understand why he was in his present position ; hence 
some reticence. It was one of those afternoons in early 
March that make one wonder how the rest of the world 
avoids emigrating to Louisiana in a body. 

“ Is not the season early ? ” asked Frowenfeld. 

M. Grandissime believed it was ; but then the Creole 
spring always seemed so, he said. 

The land was an inverted firmament of flowers. The 
birds were an innumerable, busy, joy-compelling multi- 
tude, darting and fluttering hither and thither, as one 
might imagine the babes do in heaven. The orange- 
groves were in blossom ; their dark green boughs 
seemed snowed upon from a cloud of incense, and a 
listening ear might catch an incessant, whispered trickle 
of falling petals, dropping “as the honey-comb.” The 
magnolia was beginning to add to its dark and shining 
evergreen foliage, frequent sprays of pale new leaves 
and long, slender, buff buds of others yet to come. The 
oaks, both the bare-armed and the ** green-robed sena- 
tors,” the willows, and the plaqueminiers, were putting 
out their subdued florescence as if they smiled in grave 
participation with the laughing gardens. The homes 
that gave perfection to this beauty were those old, large, 
belvidered colonial villas, of which you may still here 
and there see one standing, battered into half ruin, 
high and broad, among founderies, cotton and tobacco- 
sheds, junk-yards, and longshoremen’s hovels, like one 
unconquered elephant in a wreck of artillery. In Frow- 
enfeld’s day the “ smell of their garments was like 
Lebanon.” They were seen by glimpses through 


A RIDE AND A RESCUE. 


193 


chance openings in lofty hedges of Cherokee rose or 
bois-d’arc, under boughs of cedar or pride-of-China, 
above their groves of orange or down their long, over- 
arched avenues of oleander ; and the lemon and the 
pomegranate, the banana, the fig, the shaddock, and at 
times even the mango and the guava, joined “hands 
around ” and tossed their fragrant locks above the lilies 
and roses. Frowenfeld forgot to ask himself further 
concerning the probable intent of M. Grandissime’s invi- 
tation to ride ; these beauties seemed rich enough in 
good reasons. He felt glad and grateful. 

At a certain point the two horses turned of their own 
impulse, as by force of habit, and with a few clamber- 
ing strides mounted to the top of the levee and stood 
still, facing the broad, dancing, hurrying, brimming 
river. 

The Creole stole an amused glance at the elated, self- 
forgetful look of his immigrant friend. 

“ Mr. Frowenfeld,” he said, as the delighted apothe- 
cary turned with unwonted suddenness and saw his 
smile, “ I believe you like this better than discussion. 
You find it easier to be in harmony with Louisiana than 
with Louisianians, eh ? ” 

Frowenfeld colored with surprise. Something un- 
pleasant had lately occurred in his shop. Was this to 
signify that M. Grandissime had heard of it ? 

“ I am a Louisianian,” replied he, as if this were a 
point assailed. 

“ I would not insinuate otherwise,” said M. Grandis- 
sime, with a kindly gesture. “ I would like you to feel 
so. We are citizens now of a different government to 
that under which we lived the morning we first met. 
Yet” — the Creole paused and smiled — “you are not 
9 


194 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


and I am glad you are not, what we call a Louisi 
anian.” 

Frowenfeld’s color increased. He turned quickly in 
his saddle as if to say something very positive, but hesi- 
tated, restrained himself and asked : 

“ Mr. Grandissime, is not your Creole ‘we’ a word 
that does much damage ? ” 

The Creole’s response was at first only a smile, fol- 
lowed by a thoughtful countenance ; but he presently 
said, with some suddenness : 

“ My-de’-seh, yes. Yet you see I am, even this mo- 
ment, forgetting we are not a separate people. Yes, 
our Creole ‘ we ’ does damage, and our Creole ‘ you ’ 
does more. I assure you, sir, I try hard to get my peo- 
ple to understand that it is time to stop calling those 
who come and add themselves to the community, aliens, 
interlopers, invaders. That is what I hear my cousins, 
’Polyte and Sylvestre, in the heat of discussion, called 
you the other evening ; is it so ? ” 

“ I brought it upon myself,” said Frowenfeld. “ I 
brought it upon myself.” 

“Ah!” interrupted M. Grandissime, with a broad 
smile, “ excuse me — I am fully prepared to believe it. 
But the charge is a false one. I told them so. My- 
de’-seh — I know that a citizen of the United States in 
the United States has a right to become, and to be 
called, under the laws governing the case, a Louisian- 
ian, a Vermonter, or a Virginian, as it may suit his 
whim ; and even if he should be found dishonest or 
dangerous, he has a right to be treated just exactly as 
we treat the knaves and ruffians who are native born ! 
Every discreet man must admit that.” 

“ But if they do not enforce it, Mr. Grandissime,” 


A RIDE AND A RESCUE. 


195 


quickly responded the sore apothecary, if they con- 
tinually forget it — if one must surrender himself to the 

errors and crimes of the community as he finds it ” 

The Creole uttered a low laugh. 

Party differences, Mr. Frowenfeld ; they have them 
in all countries.” 

So your cousins said,” said Frowenfeld. 

And how did you answer them ? ” 

** Offensively,” said the apothecary, with sincere mor- 
tification. 

** Oh ! that was easy,” replied the other, amusedly ; 
** but how ? ” 

I said that, having here only such party differences 
as are common elsewhere, we do not behave as they 
elsewhere do ; that in most civilized countries the immi- 
grant is welcome, but here he is not. I am afraid I have 
not learned the art of courteous debate,” said Frowen- 
feld, with a smile of apology. 

’Tis a great art,” said the Creole, quietly, stroking 
his horse’s neck. I suppose my cousins denied your 
statement with indignation, eh ? ” 

Yes ; they said the honest immigrant is always wel- 
come.” 

Well, do you not find that true ? ” 

** But, Mr. Grandissime, that is requiring the immi- 
grant to prove his innocence ! ” Frowenfeld spoke from 
the heart. And even the honest immigrant is welcome 
only when he leaves his peculiar opinions behind him. 
Is that right, sir ? ” 

The Creole smiled at Frowenfeld’s heat. 

“ My-de’-seh, my cousins complain that you ad- 
vocate measures fatal to the prevailing order of so 
ciety.” 


196 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


But/’ replied the unyielding Frowenfeld, turning red 
der than ever, “that is the very thing that American 
liberty gives me the right — peaceably— to do ! Here is 
a structure of society defective, dangerous, erected on 
views of human relations which the world is abandoning 
as false ; yet the immigrant’s welcome is modified with 
the warning not to touch these false foundations with one 
of his fingers ! ” 

“ Did you tell my cousins the foundations of society 
here are false ? ” 

“ I regret to say I did, very abruptly. I told them 
they were privately aware of the fact.” 

“You may say,” said the ever-amiable Creole, “ that 
you allowed debate to run into controversy, eh ? ” 

Frowenfeld was silent ; he compared the gentleness 
of this Creole’s rebukes with the asperity of his advocacy 
of right and felt humiliated. But M. Grandissime spoke 
with a rallying smile. 

“ Mr. Frowenfeld, you never make pills with eight 
corners, eh ? ” 

“ No, sir.” The apothecary smiled. 

“ No, you make them round ; cannot you make your 
doctrines the same way ? My-de’-seh, you will think 
me impertinent ; but the reason I speak is because I 
wish very much that you and my cousins would not be 
offended with each other. To tell you the truth, my- 
de’-seh, I hoped to use you with them — pardon my 
frankness.” 

“ If Louisiana had more men like you, M. Grandis- 
sime,” cried the untrained Frowenfeld, “ society would 
be less sore to the touch.” 

“ My-de’-seh,” said the Creole, laying his hand out 
toward his companion and turning his horse in such a 


A RIDE AND A RESCUE. 197 

way as to turn the other also, “ do me one favor ; re- 
member that it zs sore to the touch.” 

The animals picked their steps down the inner face 
of the levee and resumed their course up the road at a 
walk. 

“ Did you see that man just turn the bend of the 
road, away yonder ? ” the Creole asked. 

“Yes.” 

“ Did you recognize him ? ” 

“ It was — my landlord, wasn’t it ? ” 

“ Yes. Did he not have a conversation with you 
lately, too ? ” 

“ Yes, sir ; why do you ask ? ” 

“ It has had a bad effect on him. I wonder why he 
is out here on foot ? ” 

The horses quickened their paces. The two friends 
xode along in silence. Frowenfeld noticed his compa- 
nion frequently cast an eye up along the distant sunset 
shadows of the road with a new anxiety. Yet, when 
M. Grandissime broke the silence it was only to say : 

“ I suppose you find the blemishes in our state of 
society can all be attributed to one main defect, Mr. 
Frowenfeld ? ” 

Frowenfeld was glad of the chance to answer : 

“ I have not overlooked that this society has disad- 
vantages as well as blemishes ; it is distant from enlight- 
ened centres ; it has a language and religion different 
from that of the great people of which it is now called 
to be a part. That it has also positive blemishes of or- 
ganism ” 

“ Yes,” interrupted the Creole, smiling at the immi- 
grant’s sudden magnanimity, “ its positive blemishes ; 
do they all spring from one main defect ? ” 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


198 

I think not. The climate has its influence, the soil 
has its influence — dwellers in swamps cannot be moun- 
taineers.” 

But after all,” persisted the Creole, the greater 
part of our troubles comes from ” 

** Slavery,” said Frowenfeld, “ or rather caste.” 

Exactly,” said M. Grandissime. 

You surprise me, sir,” said the simple apothecary. 

I supposed you were ” 

My-de’-seh,” exclaimed M. Grandissime, suddenly 
becoming very earnest, “ I am nothing, nothing ! 
There is where you have the advantage of me. I am 
but a dilettante^ whether in politics, in philosophy, 
morals, or religion. I am afraid to go deeply into any- 
thing, lest it should make ruin in my name, my family, 
my property.” 

He laughed unpleasantly. 

The question darted into Frowenfeld’s mind, whether 
this might not be a hint of the matter that M. Grandis- 
sime had been trying to see him about. 

Mr. Grandissime,” he said, I can hardly believe 
you would neglect a duty either for family, property, or 
society. 

Well, you mistake,” said the Creole, so coldly that 
Frowenfeld colored. 

They galloped on. M. Grandissime brightened again, 
almost to the degree of vivacity. By and by they slack- 
ened to a slow trot and were silent. The gardens had 
been long left behind, and they were passing between 
continuous Cherokee rose-hedges on the right, and on 
the left along that bend of the Mississippi where its 
waters, glancing off three miles above from the old De 
IVJacarty kv^e (now (Carrollton), at the slightest opposi 


A RIDE AETD A RESCUE. 


199 


tion in the breeze go whirling and leaping like a herd of 
dervishes across to the ever-crumbling shore, now marked 
by the little yellow depot-house of Westwego. Miles 
up the broad flood the sun was disappearing gorgeously. 
From their saddles, the two horsemen feasted on the 
scene without comment. 

But presently, M. Grandissime uttered a low ejacula- 
tion and spurred his horse toward a tree hard by, pre- 
paring, as he went, to fasten his rein to an overhanging 
branch. Frowenfeld, agreeable to his beckon, imitated 
the movement. 

** I fear he intends to drown himself,’' whispered M. 
Grandissime, as they hurriedly dismounted. 

Who ? Not ” 

** Yes, your landlord, as you call him. He is on the 
flat ; I saw his hat over the levee. When we get on top 
the levee, we must get right into it. But do not follow 
him into the water in front of the flat ; it is certain 
death ; no power of man could keep you from going 
under it." 

The words were quickly spoken ; they scrambled to 
the levee’s crown. Just abreast of them lay a “flat- 
boat," emptied of its cargo and moored to the levee. 
They leaped into it. A human figure swerved from 
the onset of the Creole and ran toward the bow of the 
boat, and in an instant more would have been in the 
river. 

‘‘ Stop ! ’’ said Frowenfeld, seizing the unresisting f, 
m. c. firmly by the collar. 

Honors Grandissime smiled, partly at the apothecary’s 
brief speech, but much more at his success. 

Let him go, Mr. Frowenfeld," he said, as he came 
near. 


200 


THE. GRANDTSSIMES. 


The silent man turned away his face with a gesture of 
shame. 

M. Grandissime, in a gentle voice, exchanged a few 
words with him, and he turned and walked away, gained 
the shore, descended the levee, and took a foot-path 
which soon hid him behind a hedge. 

“ He gives his pledge not to try again,” said the 
Creole, as the two companions proceeded to resume the 
saddle. “ Do not look after him.” (Joseph had cast a 
searching look over the hedge.) 

They turned homeward. 

“ Ah ! Mr. Frowenfeld,” said the Creole, suddenly, 
“ if the immy grant has cause of complaint, how much 
more has that man ! True, it is only love for which he 
would have just now drowned himself ; yet what an ac- 
cusation, my de’-seh, is his whole life against that ^ caste * 
which shuts him up within its narrow and almost soli- 
tary limits ! And yet, Mr. Frowenfeld, this people 
esteem this very same crime of caste the holiest and 
most precious of their virtues. My-de’-seh, it never 
occurs to us that in this matter we are interested, and 
therefore disqualified, witnesses. We say we are not 
understood ; that the jury (the civilized world) renders 
its decision without viewing the body ; that we are 
judged from a distance. We forget that we ourselves 
are too close to see distinctly, and so continue, a spec- 
tacle to civilization, sitting in a horrible darkness, my- 
de’-seh ! ” He frowned. 

‘‘ The shadow of the Ethiopian,” said the grave 
apothecary. 

M. Grandissime’s quick gesture implied that Frowen- 
feld had said the very word. 

“ Ah ! my-de’-seh, when I try sometimes to stand 


A RIDE AND A RESCUE, 


201 


outside and look at it, I am ama-aze at the length, the 
blackness of that shadow ! (He was so deep in ear- 
nest that he took no care of his English.) It is the 
N^m^sis w’ich, instead of coming afteh, glides along by 
the side of this morhal, political, commercial, social 
mistake ! It blanches, my-de’-seh, ow whole civiliza- 
tion ! It drhags us a centurhy behind the rhes’ of the 
world I It rhetahds and poisons everhy industrhy we 
got ! — mos’ of all our-h immense agrhicultu’e ! It brheeds 
a thousan’ cusses that nevva leave home but jus’ flutter-h 
up an’ rhoost, my-de’-seh, on ow heads ; an’ we nevva 
know it ! — yes, sometimes some of us know it.” 

He changed the subject. 

They had repassed the ruins of Fort St. Louis, and 
were well within the precincts of the little city, when, as 
they pulled up from a final gallop, mention was made of 
Doctor Keene. He was improving ; Honore had seen 
him that morning ; so, at another hour, had Frowenfeld. 
Doctor Keene had told Honore about Palmyre’s wound. 

** You was at her house again this morning? ” asked 
the Creole. 

“ Yes,” said Frowenfeld. 

M. Grandissime shook his head warningly. 

*‘’Tis a dangerous business. You are almost sure 
to become the object of slander. You ought to tell 
Doctor Keene to make some other arrangement, or 
presently you, too, will be under the — ” he lowered his 
voice, for Frowenfeld was dismounting at the shop door, 
and three or four acquaintances stood around — “ under 
the ‘ shadow of the Ethiopian.’ ” 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


THE F^iTE DE GRANDP^JRE. 

Sojourners in New Orleans who take their after- 
noon drive down Esplanade street will notice, across on 
the right, between it and that sorry streak once fondly 
known as Champs Elysees, two or three large, old 
houses, rising above the general surroundings and dis- 
playing architectural features which identify them with 
an irrevocable past — a past when the faithful and true 
Creole could, without fear of contradiction, express his 
religious belief that the antipathy he felt for the Ameri- 
cain invader was an inborn horror laid lengthwise in his 
ante-natal bones by a discriminating and appreciative 
Providence. There is, for instance, or was until lately, 
one house which some hundred and fifteen years ago 
was the suburban residence of the old sea-captain gover- 
nor, Kerlerec. It stands up among the oranges as silent 
and gray as a pelican, and, so far as we know, has never 
had one cypress plank added or subtracted since its 
master was called to France and thrown into the Bastile. 
Another has two dormer windows looking out westward, 
and, when the setting sun strikes the panes, reminds one 
of a man with spectacles standing up in an audience, 
searching for a friend who is not there and will never 
come back. These houses are the last remaining — if, 
indeed, they were not pulled down yesterday — of p 


THE FETE DE GRANDPERE. 


203 


group that once marked from afar the direction of the 
old highway between the city’s walls and the suburb St. 
Jean. Here clustered the earlier aristocracy of the col- 
ony ; all that pretty crew of counts, chevaliers, mar- 
quises, colonels, dons, etc., who loved their kings, and 
especially their kings’ moneys, with an abandon which 
affected the accuracy of nearly all their accounts. 

Among these stood the great mother-mansion of the 
Grandissimes. Do not look for it now ; it is quite gone. 
The round, white-plastered brick pillars which held the 
house fifteen feet up from the reeking ground and rose 
on loftily to sustain the great overspreading roof, or 
clustered in the cool, paved basement ; the lofty halls, 
with their multitudinous glitter of gilded brass and 
twinkle of sweet-smelling wax-candles ; the immense 
encircling veranda, where twenty Creole girls might 
valk abreast ; the great front stairs, descending from the 
veranda to the garden, with a lofty palm on either side, 
on whose broad steps forty Grandissimes could gather 
on a birthday afternoon ; and the belvidere, whence 
you could see the cathedral, the Ursulines’, the gover- 
nor’s mansion, and the river, far away, shining between 
the villas of Tchoupitoulas Coast — all have disappeared 
as entirely beyond recall as the flowers that bloomed 
in the gardens on the day of this fetedegrandpbre. 

Odd to say, it was not the grandpere’s birthday that 
had passed. For weeks the happy children of the many 
Grandissime branches — the Mandarins, the St. Blan- 
cards, the Brahmins — had been standing with their up 
lifted arms apart, awaiting the signal to clap hands and 
jump, and still, from week to week, the appointed day 
had been made to fall back, and fall back before — what 
think you ? — an inability to understand Honord. 


204 


JBE GRANDISSTMES. 


It was a sad paradox in the history of this majestic 
old house that her best child gave her the most annoy- 
ance ; but it had long been so. Even in Honore’s early 
youth, a scant two years after she had watched him over 
the tops of her green myrtles and white and crimson 
oleanders, go away, a lad of fifteen, supposing he would 
of course come back a Grandissime of the Grandissimes 
— an inflexible of the inflexibles, he was found “ incit- 
ing” (so the stately dames and officials who graced her 
front veranda called it) a Grandissime-De Grapion re' 
conciliation by means of transatlantic letters, and redu- 
cing the flames of the old feud, rekindled by the Fusilier- 
Nancanou duel, to a little foul smoke. The main diffi- 
culty seemed to be that Honore could not be satisfied 
with a clean conscience as to his own deeds and the 
peace and fellowships of single households ; his longing 
was, and had ever been — he had inherited it from his 
father — to see one unbroken and harmonious Gran- 
dissime family gathering yearly under this venerated 
roof without reproach before all persons, classes, and 
races with whom they had ever had to do. It was not 
hard for the old mansion to forgive him once or twice ; 
but she had had to do it often. It seems no overstretch 
of fancy to say she sometimes gazed down upon his err- 
ing ways with a look of patient sadness in her large and 
beautiful windows. 

And how had that forbearance been rewarded ? Take 
one short instance : when, seven years before this pres- 
ent fete de grandpere, he came back from Europe, and 
she (this old home which we cannot help but personify), 
though in trouble then — a trouble that sent up the old 
feud flames again — opened her halls to rejoice in him 
with the joy of all her gathered families, he presently 


THE FETE BE GRANDPkRE. 


205 


said such strange things in favor of indiscriminate 
human freedom that for very shame’s sake she hushed 
them up, in the fond hope that he would outgrow such 
heresies. But he ? On top of all the rest, he declined 
a military commission and engaged in commerce — 
shop-keeping, parbleu ! ” 

However, therein was developed a grain of consola- 
tion. Honore became — as he chose to call it — more 
prudent. With much tact, Agricola was amiably 
crowded off the dictator’s chair, to become, instead, a 
sort of seneschal. For a time the family peace was per- 
fect, and Honore, by a touch here to-day and a word 
there to-morrow, was ever lifting the name, and all who 
bore it, a little and a little higher ; when suddenly, as 
in his father’s day — that dear Numa who knew how to 
sacrifice his very soul, as a sort of Iphigenia for the pro- 
pitiation of the family gods — as in Numa’s day came the 
cession to Spain, so now fell this other cession, like an 
unexpected tornado, threatening the wreck of her chil- 
dren’s slave-schooners and the prostration alike of their 
slave-made crops and their Spanish liberties ; and just in 
the fateful moment where Numa would have stood by 
her, Honore had let go. Ah, it was bitter ! 

See what foreign education does!” cried a Man- 
darin de Grandissime of the Baton Rouge Coast I 
am sorry now” — derisively — that I never sent my 
boy to France, am I not? No ! No-0-0 ! I would rather 
my son should never know how to read, than that he 
should come back from Paris repudiating the sentiments 
and prejudices of his own father. Is education better 
than family peace ? Ah, bah 1 My son make friends 
with Am^ricains and tell me they — that call a negro 
‘ monsieur ’ — are as good as his father ? But that is 


2;06 the GRANDISSIMES. 

what we get for letting Honore become a merchant 
Ha ! the degradation ! Shaking hands with men who 
do not believe in the slave trade ! Shake hands ? Yes ; 
associate — fraternize ! with apothecaries and negro- 
philes. And now we are invited to meet at the fite dt 
^rafidpere, in the house where he is really the chief— 
the caqique / ” 

No ! The family would not come together on the first 
appointment; no, nor on the second; no, not if the 
grandpapa did express his wish ; no, nor on the third — 
nor on the fourth. 

Non, Messieurs! ” cried both youth and reckless 
age ; and, sometimes, also, the stronger heads of the 
family, the men of means, of force and of influence, 
urged on from behind by their proud and beautiful wives 
and daughters. 

Arms, generally, rather than heads, ruled there in 
those days, and sentiments (which are the real laws) took 
shape in accordance with the poetry, rather than the 
reason, of things, and the community recognized the 
supreme domination of the gentleman ” in questions 
of right and of “the ladies” in matters of sentiment. 
Under such conditions strength establishes over weak- 
ness a showy protection which is the subtlest of tyrannies, 
yet which, in the very moment of extending its arm over 
woman, confers upon her a power which a truer freedom 
would only diminish ; constitutes her in a large degree 
an autocrat of public sentiment and thus accepts her 
narrowest prejudices and most belated errors as a very 
need-be’s of social life. 

The clans classified easily into three groups : there 
were those who boiled, those who stewed, and those who 
merely steamed under a close cover. The men in the 


THE FETE DE GRANDPkRE. 20 / 

first two groups were, for the most part, those who were 
holding office under old Spanish commissions, and were 
daily expecting themselves to be displaced and Louisiana 
thereby ruined. The steaming ones were a goodly frac- 
tion of the family — the timid, the apathetic, the “con- 
servative.” The conservatives found ease better than 
exactitude, the trouble of thinking great, the agony of de- 
ciding harrowing, and the alternative of smiling cynically 
and being liberal so much easier — and the warm weather 
coming on with a rapidity wearying to contemplate. 

“ The Yankee was an inferior animal.” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ But Honore had a right to his convictions.” 

“Yes, that was so, too.” 

“It looked very traitorous, however.” 

“ Yes, so it did.” 

“Nevertheless, it might turn out that Honors was 
advancing the true interests of his people.” 

“ Very likely.” 

“ It would not do to accept office under the Yankee 
government.” 

“ Of course not.” 

“Yet it would never do to let the Yankees get the 
offices, either.” 

“ That was true ; nobody could deny that.” 

“ If Spain or France got the country back, they would 
certainly remember and reward those who had held out 
faithfully.” 

“Certainly ! That was an old habit with France and 
Spain.” 

“ But if they did not get the country back ” 

“Yes, that is so ; Honore is a very good fellow^ 


and 


208 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


And, one after another, under the mild coolness of Ho 
norm's amiable disregard, their indignation trickled back 
from steam to water, and they went on drawing their sti- 
pends, some in Honore’s counting-room, where they held 
positions, some from the provisional government, which 
had as yet made but few changes, and some, secretly, from 
the cunning Casa-Calvo ; for, blow the wind east or 
blow the wind west, the affinity of the average Grandis- 
sime for a salary abideth forever. 

Then, at the right moment, Honore made a single 
happy stroke, and even the hot Grandissimes, they of 
the interior parishes and they of Agricola’s squadron, 
slaked and crumbled when he wrote each a letter saying 
that the governor was about to send them appointments, 
and that it would be well, if they wished to evade them, 
to write the governor at once, surrendering their present 
commissions. Well ! Evade ? They would evade 
nothing ! Do you think they would so belittle them- 
selves as to write to the usurper ? They would submit 
to keep the positions first. 

But the next move was Honore’s making the whole 
town aware of his apostasy. The great mansion, with 
the old grandpere sitting out in front, shivered. As we 
have seen, he had ridden through the Place d’ Armes with 
the arch-usurper himself. Yet, after all, a Grandissime 
would be a Grandissime still ; whatever he did he did 
openly. And wasn’t that glorious — never to be ashamed 
of anything, no matter how bad ? It was not every one 
who could ride with the governor. 

And blood was so much thicker than vinegar that the 
family that would not meet either in January or Febru- 
ary, met in the first week of March, every constituent 
one of them. 


THE FETE DE GRANDPkRE. 20 ^ 

The feast has been eaten. The garden now is joyous 
with children and the veranda resplendent with ladies. 
From among the latter the eye quickly selects one. She 
is perceptibly taller than the others; she sits in their 
midst near the great hall entrance ; and as you look at 
her there is no claim of ancestry the Grandissimes can 
make which you would not allow. Her hair, once black, 
now lifted up into a glistening snow-drift, augments the 
majesty of a still beautiful face, while her full stature and 
stately bearing suggest the finer parts of Agricola, her 
brother. It is Madame Grandissime, the mother of 
Honors. 

One who sits at her left, and is very small, is a favorite 
cousin. On her right is her daughter, the widowed 
sefiora of Jose Martinez; she has wonderful black hair 
and a white brow as wonderful. The commanding car- 
riage of the mother is tempered in her to a gentle dignity 
and calm, contrasting pointedly with the animated 
manners of the courtly matrons among whom she sits, 
and whose continuous conversation takes this direction 
or that, at the pleasure of Madame Grandissime. 

But if you can command your powers of attention, 
despite those children who are shouting Creole French 
and sliding down the rails of the front stair, turn the eye 
to the laughing squadron of beautiful girls, which every 
few minutes, at an end of the veranda, appears, wheels 
and dissappears, and you note, as it were by flashes, the 
characteristics of face and figure that mark the Louis- 
ianaises in the perfection of the new-blown flower. 
You see that blondes are not impossible ; there, indeed, 
are two sisters who might be undistinguishable twins 
but that one has blue eyes and golden hair. You note 
the exquisite pencilling of their eyebrows, here and there 


210 


THE GRANDISSIME^. 


some heavier and more velvety, where a less vivacious 
expression betrays a share of Spanish blood. As Gran' 
dissimes, you mark their tendency to exceed the medium 
Creole stature, an appearance heightened by the fashion 
of their robes. There is scarcely a rose in all their 
cheeks and a full red-ripeness of the lips would hardly 
be in keeping ; but there is plenty of life in their eyes, 
which glance out between the curtains of their long 
lashes with a merry dancing that keeps time to the prattle 
of tongues. You are not able to get a straight look 
into them, and if you could you would see only your 
own image cast back in pitiful miniature ; but you turn 
away and feel, as you fortify yourself with an inward 
smile, that they know you, you man, through and 
through, like a little song. And in turning, your sight 
is glad to rest again on the face of Honore’s mother. 
You see, this time, that she is his mother, by a charm 
you had overlooked, a candid, serene and lovable smile. 
It is the wonder of those who see that smile that she 
can ever be harsh. 

The playful, mock-martial tread of the delicate 
Creole feet is all at once swallowed up by the sound of 
many heavier steps in the hall, and the fathers, grand- 
fathers, sons, brothers, uncles and nephews of the great 
family come out, not a man of them that cannot, with a 
little care, keep on his feet. Their descendants of the 
present day sip from shallower glasses and with less 
marked results. 

The matrons, rising, offer the chief seat to the first 
comer, the great-grandsire — the oldest living Grandis 
sime — Alcibiade, a shaken but unfallen monument of 
early colonial days, a browned and corrugated souvenir 
of De Vaudreuil’s pomps, of O’Reilly’s iron rule, of 


THE fItE DE GRANDPkRE. 21 1 

Galvez' brilliant wars — a man who had seen Bienville and 
Zephyr Grandissime. With what splendor of manner 
Madame Fusilier de Grandissime offers, and he accepts, 
the place of honor ! Before he sits down he pauses a 
moment to hear out the companion on whose arm he 
had been leaning. But Thdophile, a dark, graceful 
youth of eighteen, though he is recounting something 
with all the oblivious ardor of his kind, becomes instantly 
silent, bows with grave deference to the ladies, hands 
the aged forefather gracefully to his seat, and turning, 
recommences the recital to one who listens with the same 
perfect courtesy to all — his beloved cousin Honore. 

Meanwhile, the gentlemen throng out. Gallant crew ! 
These are they who have been pausing proudly week 
after week in an endeavor (?) to understand the opaque 
motives of Numa’s son. 

In the middle of the veranda pauses a tall, muscular 
man of fifty, with the usual smooth face and an iron-gray 
queue. That is Colonel Agamemnon Brahmin de Gran 
dissime, purveyor to the family’s military pride, con- 
servator of its military glory, and, after Honore, the 
most admired of the name. Achille Grandissime, he 
who took Agricola away from Frowenfeld’s shop in the 
carriage, essays to engage Agamemnon in conversation, 
and the colonel, with a glance at his kinsman’s nether 
limbs and another at his own, and, with that placid 
facility with which the graver sort of Creoles take up 
the trivial topics of the lighter, grapples the subject of 
boots. A tall, bronzed, slender young man, who pre- 
fixes to Grandissime the maternal St. Blancard, asks 
where his wife is, is answered from a distance, throws 
her a kiss and sits down on a step, with Jean Baptiste 
de Grandissime, a piratical-looking black-beard, above 


212 


THE GRANDISSIMRS. 


him, and Alphonse Mandarin, an olive-skinned boy^ 
below. Valentine Grandissime, of Tchoupitoulas, goes 
quite down to the bottom of the steps and leans 
against the balustrade. He is a large, broad-shoul- 
dered, well-built man, and, as he stands smoking a 
cigar, with his black-stockinged legs crossed, he glances 
at the sky with the eye of a hunter — or, it may be, of a 
sailor. 

‘‘Valentine will not marry,” says one of two ladies 
who lean over the rail of the veranda above. “ I won - 
der why.” 

The other fixes on her a meaning look, and she 
twitches her shoulders and pouts, seeing she has asked 
a foolish question, the answer to which would only put 
Valentine in a numerous class and do him no credit. 

Such were the choice spirits of the family. Agricola 
had retired. Raoul was there ; his pretty auburn head 
might have been seen about half-way up the steps, close 
to one well sprinkled with premature gray. 

“ No such thing ! ” exclaimed his companion. 

(The conversation was entirely in Creole French.) 

“ I give you my sacred word of honor ! ” cried Raoul. 

“ That Honore is having all his business carried on in 
English ? ” asked the incredulous Sylvestre. (Such was 
his name.) 

“ I swear — ” replied Raoul, resorting to his favorite 
pledge — “ on a stack of Bibles that high ! ” 

“ Ah-h-h-h, pf-f-f-f-f ! ” 

This polite expression of unbelief was further empha- 
sized by a spasmodic flirt of one hand, with the thumb 
pointed outward. 

“ Ask him ! ask him ! ” cried Raoul. 

“ Honors ! ” called Sylvestre, rising up. Two of 


THE FETE DE GRANDPERE. 21 3 

three persons passed the call around the corner of the 
veranda. 

Honore came with a chain of six girls on either arm. 
By the time he arrived, there was a Babel of discussion. 

“ Raoul says you have ordered all your books and ac- 
counts to be written in English,” said Sylvestre. 

“Well?” 

“ It is not true, is it ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

The entire veranda of ladies raised one long-drawn, 
deprecatory “Ah!” except Honore’s mother. She 
turned upon him a look of silent but intense and indig- 
nant disappointment. 

“ Honore 1 ” cried Sylvestre, desirous of repairing his 
defeat, “Honore!” 

But Honore was receiving the clamorous abuse of the 
two half dozens of girls. 

“ Honore ! ” cried Sylvestre again, holding up a torn 
scrap of writing-paper which bore the marks of the 
counting-room floor and of a boot-heel, “ how do you 
spell ‘ la-dee ? ’ ” 

There was a mcment’s hush to hear the answer. 

“ Ask Valentine,” said Honore. 

Everybody laughed aloud. That taciturn man’s only 
retort was to survey the company above him with an 
unmoved countenance, and to push the ashes slowly 
from his cigar with his little Anger. M. Valentine 
Grandissime, of Tchoupitoulas, could not read. 

“ Show it to Agricola,” cried two or three, as that 
great man came out upon the veranda, heavy-eyed, and 
with tumbled hair. 

Sylvestre, spying Agricola’s head beyond the ladies, 
put the question. 


214 


THE GRAHDISSIMES. 


** How Is it spelled on that paper ? ” retorted the 
king of beasts. 

“ L-a-y ” 

** Ignoramus ! ” growled the old man. 

** I did not spell it,” cried Raoul, and attempted to 
seize the paper. But Sylvestre throwing his hand be- 
hind him, a lady snatched the paper, two or three cried 
** Give it to Agricola ! ” and a pretty boy, whom the 
laughter and excitement had lured from the garden, 
scampered up the steps and handed it to the old man. 

Honore ! ” cried Raoul, must not be read. It 
is one of your private matters.” 

But Raoul’s insinuation that anybody would entrust 
him with a private matter brought another laugh. 

Honore nodded to his uncle to read it out, and those 
who could not understand English, as well as those who 
could, listened. It was a paper Sylvestre had picked 
out of a waste-basket on the day of Aurore’s visit to 
the counting-room. Agricola read : 

“ What is that layde want in thare with Honore ? ” 

“ Honore is goin giv her bac that proprety — that is Aurore DeGrapion 
what Agricola kill the husband.” 

That was the whole writing, but Agricola never fin- 
ished. He was reading aloud — that is Aurore De- 
Grap ” 

At that moment he dropped the paper and blackened 
with wrath ; a sharp flash of astonishment ran through 
the company ; an instant of silence followed and Agri- 
cola’s thundering voice rolled down upon Sylvestre in a 
succession of terrible imprecations. 

It was painful to see the young man’s face as speech- 
less he received this abuse. He stood pale and fright 


THE FkTE DE GRANDPkRE. 


215 


ened, with a smile playing about his mouth, half of dis- 
tress and half of defiance, that said as plain as a smile 
could say, “ Uncle Agricola, you will have to pay for 
this mistake.” 

As the old man ceased, Sylvestre turned and cast a look 
downward to Valentine Grandissime ; then walked up 
the steps and passing with a courteous bow through the 
group that surrounded Agricola, went into the house. 
Valentine looked at the zenith, then at his shoe-buckles, 
tossed his cigar quietly into the grass and passed around 
a corner of the house to meet Sylvestre in the rear. 

Honore had already nodded to his uncle to come aside 
with him, and Agricola had done so. The rest of the 
company, save a few male figures down in the garden, 
after some feeble efforts to keep up their spirits on the 
veranda, remarked the growing coolness or the waning 
daylight, and singly or in pairs withdrew. It was not 
long before Raoul, who had come up upon the veranda, 
was left alone. He seemed to wait for something, as, 
leaning over the rail while the stars came out, he sang to 
himself, in a soft undertone, a snatch of a Creole song : 

** La pluie — le pluie tombait, 

Crapaud criait, 

Moustique chantait 


The moon shone so brightly that the children in the 
garden did not break off their hide-and-seek, and now 
and then Raoul suspended the murmur of his song, ab- 
sorbed in the fate of some little elf gliding from one 
black shadow to crouch in another. He was himself in 
the deep shade of a magnolia, over whose outer boughs 
the moonlight was trickling, as if the whole tree had 
been dipped in quicksilver, 


2i6 


THE GRANDISSIMES, 


In the broad walk running down to the garden gate 
some six or seven dark forms sat in chairs, not too far 
away for the light of their cigars to be occasionally seen 
and their voices to reach his ear ; but he did not listen. 
In a little while there came a light footstep, and a soft, 
mock-startled *‘Who is that?” and one of that same 
sparkling group of girls that had lately hung upon Ho» 
nore came so close to Raoul, in her attempt to discern 
his lineaments, that their lips accidentally met. They 
had but a moment of hand-in-hand converse before they 
were hustled forth by a feminine scouting party and 
thrust along into one of the great rooms of the house, 
where the youth and beauty of the Grandissimes were 
gathered in an expansive semicircle around a languish- 
ing fire, waiting to hear a story, or a song, or both, or 
half a dozen of each, from that master of narrative and 
melody, Raoul Innerarity. 

“ But mark,” they cried unitedly, you have got to 
wind up with the story of Bras-Coupd ! ” 

A song ! A song ! ” 

** Une chanson Creole! Une chanson des n^gresf** 

** Sing ‘ Ye tole dance la doung y doung doung ! * ” 
cried a black-eyed girl. 

Raoul explained that it had too many objectionable 
phrases. 

Oh, just hum the objectionable phrases and go right 

on.” 

But instead he sang them this : 

“ La premier^ fois mo te 'oir 
Li te pose au bord so lit ; 

Mo dfy Bouzon^ bel n‘amourhet 
Dauf fois li te sP so la saise 
Comme vie Madam dans so fauteil^ 

Quand li vive cote soldi. 


THE FiTE DE GRANDPkRE, 


217 


St gies ye te pits noir passe la nouitte. 

So de la lev^ plis doux passe la quitte ! 

Tou^ mo la vie^ zamein mo oir 
Ein nlamourhe zoli comme ^a ! 

Mo* blie martze — mo* bite boir * — 

Md blie tout dipi ^ temps-lh — 

Mo* blie parle — mo* blie dormi^ 

Quand mo pense apr 'es zami ! ** 

And you have heard Bras-Coupe sing that, your- 
self?” 

“ Once upon a time,” said Raoul, warming with his 
subject, ‘‘we were coming down from Pointe Macarty 
in three pirogues. We had been three days fishing and 
hunting in Lake Salvador. Bras-Coupe had one pi- 
rogue with six paddles ” 

“ Oh, yes ! ” cried a youth named Baltazar; “ sing 
that, Raoul ! ” 

And he sang that. 

“ But oh, Raoul, sing that song the negroes sing 
when they go out in the bayous at night, stealing pigs 
and chickens ! ” 

“ That boat song, do you mean, which they sing as a 
signal to those on shore ? ” He hummed. 



10 


De zabs, de zabs, d6 counou ouai’e ouaie, 
D4 zabs, d4 zabs, de counou ouaYe ouaic. 


2I8 


THE GRANDISSIMES, 


Counou ouaie ouaie ouaie ouaie, 
Counou ouaie ouaie ouaie ouaie, 
Counou ouaie ouaie ouaie, motnza, 
Momza, momza, momza, momza, 
Roza roza, roza-et — ^momza.” 


This was followed by another and still another, until 
the hour began to grow late. And then they gathered 
closer round him and heard the promised story. At the 
same hour, Honore Grandissime, wrapping himself in a 
great-coat and giving himself up to sad and somewhat 
bitter reflections, had wandered from the paternal house, 
and by and by from the grounds, not knowing why or 
whither, but after a time soliciting, at Frowenfeld’s clos- 
ing door, the favor of his company. He had been feel- 
ing a kind of suffocation. This it was that made him 
seek and prize the presence and hand-grasp of the inex- 
perienced apothecary. He led him out to the edge of 
the river. Here they sat down, and with a laborious 
attempt at a hard and jesting mood. Honors told the 
same dark story. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


THE STORY OF BRAS-COUPE. 

A VERY little more than eight years ago/* began 
Honors — but not only Honore, but Raoul also ; and not 
only they, but another, earlier on the same day, — Honore, 
the f. m. c. But we shall not exactly follow the words 
of any one of these. 

Bras-Coupe, they said, had been, in Africa and under 
another name, a prince among his people. In a certain 
war of conquest, to which he had been driven by ennui, 
he was captured, stripped of his royalty, marched down 
upon the beach of the Atlantic, and, attired as a true son 
of Adam, with two goodly arms intact, became a com- 
modity. Passing out of first hands in barter for a looking- 
glass, he was shipped in good order and condition on 
board the good schooner EgaliU, whereof Blank was 
master, to be delivered without delay at the port of Nou- 
velle Orleans (the dangers of fire and navigation ex- 
cepted), unto Blank Blank. In witness whereof. He that 
made men’s skins of different colors, but all blood of one, 
hath entered the same upon His book, and sealed it to 
the day of judgment. 

Of the voyage little is recorded — here below ; the less 
the better. Part of the living merchandise failed to 
keep ; the weather was rough, the cargo large, the vessel 
small. However, the captain discovered there was 


220 


THE GRANDISSIMES, 


room over the side, and there — all flesh is grass — from 
time to time during the voyage he jettisoned the unmer* 
chantable. 

Yet, when the reopened hatches let in the sweet 
smell of the land, Bras-Coupe had come to the upper — 
the favored — the buttered side of the world ; the anchor 
slid with a rumble of relief down through the muddy 
fathoms of the Mississippi, and the prince could hear 
through the schooner’s side the savage current of the 
river, leaping and licking about the bows, and whimper- 
ing low welcomes home. A splendid picture to the eyes 
of the royal captive, as his head came up out of the 
hatchway, was the little Franco-Spanish- American city 
that lay on the low, brimming bank. There were little 
forts that showed their whitewashed teeth ; there was a 
green parade-ground, and yellow barracks, and cabildo, 
and hospital, and cavalry stables, and custom-house, 
and a most inviting jail, convenient to the cathedral — all 
of dazzling white and yellow, with a black stripe mark- 
ing the track of the conflagration of 1794, and here and 
there among the low roofs a lofty one with round-topped 
dormer windows and a breezy belvidere looking out 
upon the plantations of coffee and indigo beyond the 
town. 

When Bras-Coupe staggered ashore, he stood but a 
moment among a drove of “likely boys,” before Agri- 
cola Fusilier, managing the business adventures of the 
Grandissime estate, as well as the residents thereon, and 
struck with admiration for the physical beauties of the 
chieftain (a man may even fancy a negro — as a negro), 
bought the lot, and loth to resell him with the rest to 
some unappreciative ’Cadian, induced Don Jose Marti- 
nez’ overseer to become his purchaser. 


THE STORY OF BRAS- CO C/PR, 


221 


Down in the rich parish of St. Bernard (whose boun- 
dary line now touches that of the distended city) lay the 
plantation, known before Bras-Coupe passed away, as 
La Renaissance. Here it was that he entered at once 
upon a chapter of agreeable surprises. He was hu- 
manely met, presented with a clean garment, lifted into 
a cart drawn by oxen, taken to a whitewashed cabin of 
logs, finer than his palace at home, and made to compre- 
hend that it was a free gift. He was also given some 
clean food, whereupon he fell sick. At home it would 
have been the part of piety for the magnate next the 
throne to launch him heavenward at once ; but now, 
healing doses were administered, and to his amazement 
he recovered. It reminded him that he was no longer 
king. 

His name, he replied to an inquiry touching that sub- 
ject, was , something in the Jaloff tongue, 

which he by and by condescended to render into Congo : 
Mioko-Koanga, in French Bras-Coupe, the Arm Cut 
Off. Truly it would have been easy to admit, had this 
been his meaning, that his tribe, in losing him, had lost 
its strong right arm close off at the shoulder ; not so 
easy for his high-paying purchaser to allow, if this other 
was his intent ; that the arm which might no longer 
shake the spear or swing the wooden sword, was no bet- 
ter than a useless stump never to be lifted for aught else. 
But whether easy to allow or not, that was his meaning. 
He made himself a type of all Slavery, turning into flesh 
and blood the truth that all Slavery is maiming. 

He beheld more luxury in a week than all his subjects 
had seen in a century. Here Congo girls were dressed 
m cottons and flannels worth, where he came from, an 
elephant’s tusk apiece. Everybody wore clothes — chih 


222 


THE GEAHD/SS/ME3. 


dren and lads alone excepted. Not a lion nad invaded 
the settlement since his immigration. The serpents 
were as nothing ; an occasional one coming up through 
the floor — that was all. True, there was more emacia 
tion than unassisted conjecture could explain — a profu* 
sion of enlarged joints and diminished muscles, which, 
thank God, was even then confined to a narrow section 
and disappeared with Spanish rule. He had no experi- 
mental knowledge of it ; nay, regular meals, on the con- 
trary, gave him anxious concern, yet had the effect — 
spite of his apprehension that he was being fattened for 
a purpose — of restoring the herculean puissance which 
formerly in Africa had made him the terror of the 
battle. 

When one day he had come to be quite himself, he 
was invited out into the sunshine, and escorted by the 
driver (a sort of foreman to the overseer), went forth 
dimly wondering. They reached a field where some 
men and women were hoeing. He had seen men and 
women — subjects of his — labor — a little — in Africa. The 
driver handed him a hoe ; he examined it with silent in- 
terest — until by signs he was requested to join the pas- 
time. 

“What?” 

He spoke, not with his lips, but with the recoil of his 
splendid frame and the ferocious expansion of his eyes. 
This invitation was a cataract of lightning leaping down 
an ink-black sky. In one instant of all-pervading clear- 
ness he read his sentence — Work. 

Bras-Coupe was six feet five. With a sweep as quick 
as instinct the back of the hoe smote the driver full in 
the head. Next, the prince lifted the nearest Congo 
crosswise, brought thirty-two teeth together in his wildly 


THE STORY OF BRAS-COUPt. 


221 


kicking leg and cast him away as a bad morsel ; then^ 
throwing another into the branches of a willow, and a 
woman over his head into a draining-ditch, he made one 
bound for freedom, and fell to his knees, rocking from 
side to side under the effect of a pistol-ball from the over- 
seer. It had struck him in the forehead, and running 
around the skull in search of a penetrable spot, tradition 
— which sometimes jests — says came out despairingly, 
exactly where it had entered. 

It so happened that, except the overseer, the whole 
company were black. Why should the trivial scandal 
be blabbed ? A plaster or two made everything even 
in a short time, except in the driver’s case — for the 
driver died. The woman whom Bras-Coupe had thrown 
over his head lived to sell calas to Joseph Frowenfeld. 

Don Jose, young and austere, knew nothing about 
agriculture and cared as much about human nature. 
The overseer often thought this, but never said it ; he 
Avould not trust even himself with the dangerous criti- 
cism. When he ventured to reveal the foregoing inci' 
dents to the sefior he laid all the blame possible upon 
the man whom death had removed beyond the reach of 
correction, and brought his account to a climax by haz- 
arding the assertion that Bras-Coupe was an animal that 
could not be whipped. 

“ Caramba ! ” exclaimed the master, with gentle em- 
phasis, how so ? ” 

Perhaps sefior had better ride down to the quarters,” 
replied the overseer. 

It was a great sacrifice of dignity, but the master 
made it. 

“ Bring him out.” 

They brought him out — chains on his feet, chains on 


224 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


his wrists, an iron yoke on his neck. The Spanish 
Creole master had often seen the bull, with his long, 
keen horns and blazing eye, standing in the arena ; but 
this was as though he had come face to face with a rhi' 
noceros. 

“ This man is not a Congo,” he said. 

“ He is a Jaloff,” replied the encouraged overseer. 
“See his fine, straight nose; moreover, he isdi cajidio 
— a prince. If I whip him he will die.” 

The dauntless captive and fearless master stood look- 
ing into each other’s eyes until each recognized in the 
other his peer in physical courage, and each was struck 
with an admiration for the other which no after differ- 
ence was sufficient entirely to destroy. Had Bras- 
Coupe’s eye quailed but once — just for one little instant 
— he would have got the lash ; but, as it was 

“ Get an interpreter,” said Don Jose ; then, more 
privately, “ and come to an understanding. I shall re- 
quire it of you.” 

Where might one find an interpreter — one not merely 
able to render a Jaloffs meaning into Creole French, or 
Spanish, but with such a turn for diplomatic correspond- 
ence as would bring about an “ understanding ” with 
this African buffalo ? The overseer was left standing 
and thinking, and Clemence, who had not forgotten who 
threw her into the draining-ditch, cunningly passed by. 

“ Ah, Clemence ” 

' ‘ Mo pas capabe ! Mo pas capabe ! (I cannot, I can- 
not ! ) Ya^ ya^ ya ! 'oir Mich^ AgricoV Fusilier ! ouala 
yune bon monture, oui ! ” — which was to signify that 
Agricola could interpret the very Papa Lebat. 

“ Agricola Fusilier ! The last man on earth to make 
peace.” 


THE STORY OF BRAS-COUPt. 225 

But there seemed to be no choice, and to Agricola 
the overseer went. It was but a little ride to the Gran- 
dissime place. 

** I, Agricola Fusilier, stand as an interpreter to a 
negro ? H-sir ! ” 

“ But I thought you might know of some person,” 
said the weakening applicant, rubbing his ear with his 
hand. 

“ Ah ! ” replied Agricola, addressing the surrounding 
scenery, if I did not — who would ? You may take 
Palmyre.” 

The overseer softly smote his hands together at the 
happy thought. 

“ Yes,” said Agricola, ‘‘ take Palmyre ; she has 
picked up as many negro dialects as I know European 
languages.” 

And she went to the don’s plantation as interpretess, 
followed by Agricola’s prayer to Fate that she might in 
some way be overtaken by disaster. The two hated 
each other with all the strength they had. He knew 
not only her pride, but her passion for the absent 
Honore. He hated her, also, for her intelligence, for 
the high favor in which she stood with her mistress, and 
for her invincible spirit, which was more offensively 
patent to him than to others, since he was himself the 
chief object of her silent detestation. 

It was Palmyre’s habit to do nothing without pains- 
taking. “When Mademoiselle comes to be Seilora,” 
thought she — she knew that her mistress and the don were 
affianced — “ it will be well to have Sefior’s esteem. I shall 
endeavor to succeed.” It was from this motive, then, 
that with the aid of her mistress she attired herself in a 
resplendence of scarlet and beads and feathers that could 

IP* 


220 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


not fail the double purpose of connecting her with th( 
children of Ethiopia and commanding the captive’s in- 
stant admiration. 

Alas for those who succeed too well ! No sooner did 
the African turn his tiger glance upon her than the fire 
of his eyes died out ; and when she spoke to him in the 
dear accents of his native tongue, the matter of strife 
vanished from his mind. He loved. 

He sat down tamely in his irons and listened to Pah 
myre’s argument as a wrecked mariner would listen to 
ghostly church-bells. He would give a short assent, 
feast his eyes, again assent, and feast his ears ; but when 
at length she made bold to approach the actual issue, 
and finally uttered the loathed word. Work, he rose up, 
six feet five, a statue of indignation in black marble. 

And then Palmyre, too, rose up, glorying in him, and 
went to explain to master and overseer. Bras Coupd 
understood, she said, that he was a slave — it was the for- 
tune of war, and he was a warrior ; but, according to a 
generally recognized principle in African international 
law, he could not reasonably be expected to work. 

‘‘As sefior will remember I told him,” remarked the 
overseer ; “ how can a man expect to plow with a 
zebra ? ” 

Here he recalled a fact in his early experience. An 
African of this stripe had been found to answer admira- 
bly as a “ driver ” to make others work. A second and 
third parley, extending through two or three days, were 
held with the prince, looking to his appointment to the 
vacant office of driver ; yet what was the master’s 
amazement to learn at length that his Highness declined 
the proffered honor. 

“ Stop ! ” spoke the overseer again, detecting a look 


THE STORY OF BRAS-COUPt. 22'] 

of alarm in Palmyre’s face as she turned away, *‘he 
doesn’t do any such thing. If Sefior will let me take 
the man to Agricola ” 

“No!” cried Palmyre, with an agonized look, “I 
will tell. He will take the place and fill it if you will 
give me to him for his own — but oh, messieurs, for the 
love of God — I do not want to be his wife ! ” 

The overseer looked at the Sefior, ready to approve 
whatever he should decide. Bras-Coupe’s intrepid au- 
dacity took the Spaniard’s heart by irresistible assault. 

“ I leave it entirely with Sefior Fusilier,” he said. 

“ But he is not my master ; he has no right ” 

“ Silence I ” 

And she was silent ; and so, sometimes, is fire in the 
wall. 

Agricola’s consent was given with malicious prompt- 
ness, and as Bras-Coupe’s fetters fell off it was decreed 
that, should he fill his office efficiently, there should be a 
wedding on the rear veranda of the Grandissime man- 
sion simultaneously with the one already appointed to 
take place in the grand hall of the same house six 
months from that present day. In the meanwhile 
Palmyre should remain with Mademoiselle, who had 
promptly but quietly made up her mind that Palmyre 
should not be wed unless she wished to be. Bras-Coupe 
made no objection, was royally worthless for a time, but 
learned fast, mastered the “ gumbo ” dialect in a few 
weeks, and in six months was the most valuable man 
ever bought for gourde dollars. Nevertheless, there 
were but three persons within as many square miles who 
were not most vividly afraid of him. 

The first was Palmyre. His bearing in her presence 
was ever one of solemn, exalted respect, which, whether 


22S 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


from pure magnanimity in himself, or by reason of hef 
magnetic eye, was something worth being there to see. 
“ It was royal ! ” said the overseer. 

The second was not that official. When Bras-Coupe 
said — as, at stated intervals, he did say — Mo courri 
cez Agricole Fusilier 'pou ou'" n amourouse (I go to 
Agricola Fusilier to see my betrothed,)” the overseer 
would sooner have intercepted a score of painted Chicka- 
saws than that one lover. He would look after him and 
shake a prophetic head. Trouble coming ; better not 
deceive that fellow ; ” yet that was the very thing 
Palmyre dared do. Her admiration for Bras-Coupe was 
almost boundless. She rejoiced in his stature ; she rev- 
elled in the contemplation of his untamable spirit; he 
seemed to her the gigantic embodiment of her own 
dark, fierce will, the expanded realization of her life- 
time longing for terrible strength. But the single defi- 
ciency in all this impassioned regard was — what so many 
fairer loves have found impossible to explain to so many 
gentler lovers — an entire absence of preference ; her 
heart she could not give him — she did not have it. Yet 
after her first prayer to the Spaniard and his overseer 
for deliverance, to the secret suprise and chagrin of her 
young mistress, she simulated content. It was artifice ; 
she knew Agricola’s power, and to seem to consent was 
her one chance with him. He might thus be beguiled 
into withdrawing his own consent. That failing, she 
had Mademoiselle’s promise to come to the rescue, which 
she could use at the last moment ; and that failing, there 
was a dirk in her bosom, for which a certain hard breast 
was not too hard. Another element of safety, of which 
she knew nothing, was a letter from the Cannes Brulee. 
The word had reached there that love had conquered — 


THE STORY OF BRAS^COUPt. 


229 


that, despite all hard words, and rancor, and positive in- 
jury, the Grandissime hand — the fairest of Grandissime 
hands — was about to be laid into that of one who with- 
out much stretch might be called a De Grapion ; that 
there was, moreover, positive effort being made to in- 
duce a restitution of old gaming-table spoils. Honore 
and Mademoiselle, his sister, one on each side of the 
Atlantic, were striving for this end. Don Jose sent this 
intelligence to his kinsman as glad tidings (a lover never 
imagines there are two sides to that which makes him 
happy), and, to add a touch of humor, told how Palmyre, 
also, was given to the chieftain. The letter that came 
back to the young Spaniard did not blame him so much : 
he was ignorant of all the facts ; but a very formal one 
to Agricola begged to notify him that if Palmyre’s union 
with Bras-Coupe should be completed, as sure as there 
was a God in heaven, the writer would have the life of 
the man who knowingly had thus endeavored to dis- 
honor one who shared the hlood of the De Grapions. 
Thereupon Agricola, contrary to his general character, 
began to drop hints to Don Jose that the engagement of 
Bras-Coupe and Palmyre need not be considered irrever- 
sible ; but the don was not desirous of disappointing his 
terrible pet. Palmyre, unluckily, played her game a 
little too deeply. She thought the moment had come 
for herself to insist on the match, and thus provoke 
Agricola to forbid it. To her incalculable dismay she 
saw him a second time reconsider and become silent. 

The second person who did not fear Bras-Coupe was 
Mademoiselle. On one of the giant’s earliest visits to see 
Palmyre he obeyed the summons which she brought 
him, to appear before the lady. A more artificial man 
might have objected on the score of dress, his zittirc 


f 


210 THE GRANDISSIMES, 

being a single gaudy garment tightly enveloping the 
waist and thighs. As his eyes fell upon the beautiful 
white lady he prostrated himself upon the ground, his 
arms outstretched before him. He would not move till 
she was gone. Then he arose like a hermit who has 
seen a vision. Bras-Coiip^ pas oul^ oir zombis 
(Bras-Coupe dares not look upon a spirit).” From that 
hour he worshipped. He saw her often ; every time, 
after one glance at her countenance, he would prostrate 
his gigantic length with his face in the dust. 

The third person who did not fear him was — Agricola ? 
Nay, it was the Spaniard — a man whose capability to 
fear anything in nature or beyond had never been dis 
covered. 

Long before the end of his probation Bras-Coupe 
would have slipped the entanglements of bondage, though 
as yet he felt them only as one feels a spider’s web 
across the face, had not the master, according to a little 
affectation of the times, promoted him to be his game- 
keeper. Many a day did these two living magazines of 
wrath spend together in the dismal swamps and on the 
meagre intersecting ridges, making war upon deer and 
bear and wildcat ; or on the Mississippi after wild goose 
and pelican ; when even a word misplaced would have 
made either the slayer of the other. Yet the months 
ran smoothly round and the wedding night drew nigh.* 
A goodly company had assembled. All things were 
ready. The bride was dressed, the bridegroom had 


* An over-zeal#us Franciscan once complained bitterly to the bishop of 
Havana, that people were being married in Louisiana in their own houses 
after dark and thinking nothing of it. It is not certain that he had refer- 
ence ^o the Grandissime mansion ; at any rate he was tittered down by the 
whole community. 


THE STORY OF BRAS-COUPt. 23 1 

come. On the great back piazza, which had been in- 
closed with sail-cloth and lighted with lanterns, was 
Palmyre, full of a new and deep design and playing her 
deceit to the last, robed in costly garments to whose 
beauty was added the charm of their having been worn 
once, and once only, by her beloved Mademoiselle. 

But where was Bras-Coupe ? 

The question was asked of Palmyre by Agricola with 
a gaze that meant in English, ‘‘ No tricks, girl ! ” 

Among the servants who huddled at the windows and 
door to see the inner magnificence a frightened whisper 
was already going round. 

"‘We have made a sad discovery, Miche Fusilier,’' 
said the overseer. “ Bras-Coupe is here ; we have him 
in a room just yonder. But — the truth is, sir, Bras- 
Coupe is a voudou.” 

*‘Well, and suppose he is; what of it? Only hush ; 
do not let his master know it. It is nothing ; all the 
blacks are voudous, more or less.” 

^‘Buthe declines to dress himself — has painted him- 
self all rings and stripes, antelope fashion.” 

‘‘Tell him Agricola Fusilier says, ‘dress immedi- 
ately ! ’ ” 

“ Oh, Miche, we have said that five times already, 
and his answer — you will pardon me — his answer is — 
spitting on the ground — that you are a contemptible 
dotchian (white trash).” 

There is nothing to do but privily to call the very 
bride — the lady herself. She comes forth in all her 
glory, small, but oh, so beautiful ! Slam ! Bras-Coupe 
is upon his face, his finger-tips touching the tips of her 
snowy slippers. She gently bids him go and dress, and 
at once he goes. 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


^32 

Ah ! now the question may be answered without 
whispering. There is Bras-Coupe, towering above all 
heads, in ridiculous red and blue regimentals, but with 
a look of savage dignity upon him that keeps every one 
from laughing. The murmur of admiration that passed 
along the thronged gallery leaped up into a shout in the 
bosom of Palmyre. Oh, Bras-Coupe — heroic soul ! 
She would not falter. She would let the silly priest say 
his say — then her cunning should help her not to be his 
wife, yet to show his mighty arm how and when to 
strike. 

He is looking for Palmyre,” said some, and at that 
moment he saw her. 

Ho-0-0-0-0 ! ” 

Agricola’s best roar was a penny trumpet to Bras- 
Coupe’s note of joy. The whole masculine half of the 
in-door company flocked out to see what the matter was. 
Bras-Coupe was taking her hand in one of his and laying 
his other upon her head ; and as some one made an un- 
necessary gesture for silence, he sang, beating slow and 
solemn time with his naked foot and with the hand that 
dropped hers to smite his breast : 


** ‘ En haut la montagne^ zami^ 

Mo pe coupe canne^ zamiy 
PotC fe tlalzeul zamiy 
Pou^ mo bailU Palmyre. 

Ah! Palmyre^ Palmyre mo A ere. 
Mo Paime ^ou^ — mo Vaime otPP ” 


Montague f ” asked one slave of another, ** gut it 
qhy montagne? gnia pas guig' ose comme qh dans la 
Louisiana ? (What’s a mountain ? We haven’t such 
things in Louisiana.)” 


THE STORY OF BRAS-COUPt. 


233 


Mein ye gagnem plem niontagnes darts V Afrique^ 
listen ! 


Ah! Pahnyre^ Palmyre^ mo' pi ti zozo, 
Mo Paime 'ou' — mo faime^ I'aime 'ou.' " 


** Bravissimo ! — ” but just then a counter-attraction 
drew the white company back into the house. An old 
French priest with sandalled feet and a dirty face had 
arrived. There was a moment of hand-shaking with the 
good father, then a moment of palpitation and holding 
of the breath, and then — you would have known it by 
the turning away of two or three feminine heads in tears 
— the lily hand became the don’s, to have and to hold, 
by authority of the Church and the Spanish king. And 
all was merry, save that outside there was coming up as 
villanous a night as ever cast black looks in through 
snug windows. 

It was just as the newly wed Spaniard, with Agricola 
and all the guests, were concluding the by-play of 
marrying the darker couple, that the hurricane struck 
the dwelling. The holy and jovial father had made 
faint pretence of kissing this second bride ; the ladies, 
colonels, dons, etc., — though the joke struck them as a 
trifle coarse — were beginning to laugh and clap hands 
again and the gowned jester to bow to right and left, 
when Bras-Coup4, tardily realizing the consummation 
of his hopes, stepped forward to embrace his wife. 

“ Bras-Coup4 ! ” 

The voice was that of Palmyre’s mistress. She had 
not been able to comprehend her maid’s behavior, but 
now Palmyre had darted upon her an appealing look. 

The warrior stopped as if a javelin had flashed over 
his head and stuck in the wall. 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


m 

** Bras-Coupe must wait till I give him his wife.** 

He sank, with hidden face, slowly to the floor. 

Bras-Coupe hears the voice of zombis ; the voice is 
sweet, but the words are very strong ; from the same 
sugar-cane comes sirop and tafia ; Bras-Coupe says to 
zombis, ‘ Bras-Coupe will wait ; but if the dotchians de- 
ceive Bras-Coupe — ” he rose to his feet with his eyes 
closed and his great black fist lifted over his head — 
“ Bras-Coupe will call Voudou-Magnan ! ” 

The crowd retreated and the storm fell like a burst of 
infernal applause. A whiff like fifty witches flouted up 
the canvas curtain of the gallery and a fierce black 
cloud, drawing the moon under its cloak, belched forth 
a stream of fire that seemed to flood the ground ; a peal 
of thunder followed as if the sky had fallen in, the house 
quivered, the great oaks groaned, and every lesser thing 
bowed down before the awful blast. Every lip held its 
breath for a minute — or an hour, no one knew — there 
was a sudden lull of the wind, and the floods came 
down. Have you heard it thunder and rain in those 
Louisiana lowlands ? Every clap seems to crack the 
world. It has rained a moment ; you peer through 
the black pane — your house is an island, all the land is 
sea. 

However, the supper was spread in the hall and 
in due time the guests were filled. Then a supper was 
spread in the big hall in the basement, below stairs, the 
sons and daughters of Ham came down like the fowls 
of the air upon a rice-field, and Bras-Coupe, throwing 
his heels about with the joyous carelessness of a smutted 
Mercury, for the first time in his life tasted the blood of 
the grape. A second, a fifth, a tenth time he tasted it, 
drinking more deeply each time, and would have taken 


THE STORY OF BRAS-COUFt 

it ten times more had not his bride cunningly concealed 
it. It was like stealing a tiger’s kittens. 

The moment quickly came when he wanted his 
eleventh bumper. As he presented his request a silent 
shiver of consternation ran through the dark company ; 
and when, in what the prince meant as a remonstrative 
tone, he repeated the petition — -splitting the table with 
his fist by way of punctuation — there ensued a hustling 
up staircases and a cramming into dim corners that left 
him alone at the banquet. 

Leaving the table, he strode upstairs and into the 
chirruping and dancing of the grand salon. There was 
a halt in the cotillion and a hush of amazement like the 
shutting off of steam. Bras-Coupe strode straight to his 
master, laid his paw upon his fellow-bridegroom’s 
shoulder and in a thunder-tone demanded : 

“ More ! ” 

The master swore a Spanish oath, lifted his hand and 
— fell, beneath the terrific fist of his slave, with a bang 
that jingled the candelabras. Dolorous stroke ! — for the 
dealer of it. Given, apparently to him — poor, tipsy 
savage — in self-defence, punishable, in a white offender, 
by a small fine or a few days’ imprisonment, it assured 
Bras-Coupe the death of a felon ; such was the old Code 
Noir. (We have a Code Noir now, but the new one is 
a mental reservation, not an enactment.) 

The guests stood for an instant as if frozen, smitten 
stiff with the instant expectation of insurrection, confla- 
gration and rapine (just as we do to-day whenever some 
poor swaggering Pompey rolls up his fist and gets a ball 
through his body), while, single-handed and naked- 
fisted in a room full of swords, the giant stood over his 
master, making strange signs and passes and rolling out 


236 TII£ GRANDISShMES. 

in wrathful words of his mother tongue what it needed 
no interpreter to tell his swarming enemies was a voudou 
malediction. 

‘ ‘ Nous sommes grigis / ” screamed two or three ladies, 

we are bewitched ! ” 

Look to your wives and daughters ! ” shouted a 
Brahmin-Mandarin. 

“ Shoot the black devils without mercy !” cried a 
Mandarin-Fusilier, unconsciously putting into a single 
outflash of words the whole Creole treatment of race 
troubles. 

With a single bound Bras-Coup^ reached the draw- 
ing-room door ; his gaudy regimentals made a red and 
blue streak down the hall ; there was a rush of frilled 
and powdered gentlemen to the rear veranda, an ava- 
lanche of lightning with Bras-Coupe in the midst mak- 
ing for the swamp, and then all without was blackness 
of darkness and all within was a wild commingled chat- 
ter of Creole, French, and Spanish tongues, — in the 
midst of which the reluctant Agricola returned his dress- 
sword to its scabbard. 

While the wet lanterns swung on crazily in the trees 
along the way by which the bridegroom was to have 
borne his bride ; while Madame Grandissime prepared 
an impromptu bridal-chamber ; while the Spaniard 
bathed his eye and the blue gash on his cheek-bone ; 
while Palmyre paced her room in a fever and wild tremor 
of conflicting emotions throughout the night and the 
guests splashed home after the storm as best they could, 
Bras-Coupe was practically declaring his independence 
on a slight rise of ground hardly sixty feet in circumfer- 
ence and lifted scarce above the water in the inmost 
depths of the swamp. 


THE STORY OF BRAS-C0UP6. 


237 


And what surroundings ! Endless colonnades of 
cypresses ; long, motionless drapings of gray moss ; 
broad sheets of noisome waters, pitchy black, resting on 
bottomless ooze ; cypress knees studding the surface ; 
patches of floating green, gleaming brilliantly here and 
there ; yonder where the sunbeams wedge themselves 
in, constellations of water-lilies, the many-hued iris, and 
a multitude of flowers that no man had named ; here, 
too, serpents great and small, of wonderful colorings, 
and the dull and loathsome moccasin sliding warily off 
the dead tree ; in dimmer recesses the cow alligator, 
with her nest hard by ; turtles a century old ; owls and 
bats, racoons, opossums, rats, centipedes and creatures 
of like vileness ; great vines of beautiful leaf and scarlet 
fruit in deadly clusters ; maddening mosquitoes, para- 
sitic insects, gorgeous dragon-flies and pretty water- 
lizards : the blue heron, the snowy crane, the red bird, 
the moss-bird, the night-hawk and the chuckwill’s 
widow ; a solemn stillness and stifled air only now and 
then disturbed by the call or whir of the summer duck, 
the dismal ventriloquous note of the rain-crow, or the 
splash of a dead branch falling into the clear but lifeless 
bayou. 

The pack of Cuban hounds that howl from Don Jose’s 
kennels cannot snuff the trail of the stolen canoe that 
glides through the sombre blue vapors of the African’s 
fastnesses. His arrows send no tell-tale reverberations to 
the distant clearing. Many a wretch in his native wil- 
derness has Bras-Coupe himself, in palmier days, driven 
to just such an existence, to escape the chains and hor- 
rors of the barracoons ; therefore not a whit broods he 
over man’s inhumanity, but, taking the affair as a mat 
ter of course, casts about him for a future. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


THE STORY OF BRAS-COUPE, CONTINUED. 

Bras-Coup 6 let the autumn pass, and wintered In his 
den. 

Don Jose, in a majestic way, endeavored to be 
happy. He took his seftora to his hall, and under her 
rule it took on for a while a look and feeling which 
turned it from a hunting-lodge into a home. Wherever 
the lady's steps turned — or it is as correct to say wher- 
ever the proud tread of Palmyre turned — the features of 
bachelor’s hall disappeared ; guns, dogs, oars, saddles, 
nets, went their way into proper banishment, and the 
broad halls and lofty chambers — the floors now muffled 
with mats of palmetto-leaf — no longer re-echoed the 
tread of a lonely master, but breathed a redolence of 
flowers and a rippling murmur of well-contented song. 

But the song was not from the throat of Bras-Coupe’s 
** piti zozo^ Silent and severe by day, she moaned 
away whole nights heaping reproaches upon herself for 
the impulse — now to her, because it had failed, inexpli- 
cable in its folly — which had permitted her hand to lie in 
Bras-Coupe’s and the priest to bind them together. 

For in the audacity of her pride, or, as Agricola would 
have said, in the immensity of her impudence, she had 
held herself consecrate to a hopeless love. But now she 
was a black man’s wife ! and even he unable to sit at her 


THE STORY OF BRAS-CdUPE, CONTINUED. 239 

feet and learn the lesson she had hoped to teach him. 
She had heard of San Domingo, and for months the 
fierce heart within her silent bosom had been leaping 
and shouting and seeing visions of fire and blood, and 
when she brooded over the nearness of Agricola and the 
remoteness of Honore these visions got from her a sort 
of mad consent. The lesson she would have taught the 
giant was Insurrection. But it was too late. Letting 
her dagger sleep in her bosom, and with an undefined 
belief in imaginary resources, she had consented to join 
hands with her giant hero before the priest ; and when 
the wedding had come and gone, like a white sail, she 
was seized with a lasting, fierce despair. A wild aggres- 
siveness that had formerly characterized her glance in 
moments of anger — moments which had grown more 
and more infrequent under the softening influence of her 
Mademoiselle’s nature — now came back intensified and 
blazed in her eye perpetually. Whatever her secret love 
may have been in kind, its sinking beyond hope below 
the horizon had left her fifty times the mutineer she had 
been before — the mutineer who has nothing to lose. 

** She loves her candio^'" said the negroes. 

“ Simple creatures ! ” said the overseer, who prided 
himself on his discernment, *‘she loves nothing; she 
hates Agricola ; it’s a case of hate at first sight — the 
strongest kind.” 

Both were partly right ; her feelings were wonderfully 
knit to the African ; and she now dedicated herself to 
Agricola’s ruin. 

The seftor, it has been said, endeavored to be happy : 
but now his heart conceived and brought forth its first- 
born fear, sired by superstition — the fear that he was 
bewitched. The negroes said that Bras-Coup4 had 


240 


THE GRANDISSIMES, 


cursed the land. Morning after morning the master 
looked out with apprehension toward his fields, until 
one night the worm came upon the indigo and between 
sunset and sunrise every green leaf had been eaten up, 
and there was nothing left for either insect or apprehen- 
sion, to feed upon. 

And then he said — and the echo came back from the 
Cannes Brulees — that the very bottom culpability of this 
thing rested on the Grandissimes, and specifically on 
their fugleman Agricola, through his putting the hellish 
African upon him. Moreover, fever and death, to a de- 
gree unknown before, fell upon his slaves. Those to 
whom life was spared — but to whom strength did not re- 
turn — wandered about the place like scarecrows, looking 
for shelter, and made the very air dismal with the reitera- 
tion, “ No ouanga (we are bewitched), BrasCoup^ fe mot 
des grigis (the voudou’s spells are on me).” The ripple 
of song was hushed and the flowers fell upon the floor. 

“ I have heard an English maxim,” wrote Colonel De 
Grapion to his kinsman, ‘‘ which I would recommend 
you to put into practice — ‘ Fight the devil with fire.” 

No, he would not recognize devils as belligerents. 

But if Rome commissioned exorcists, could not he 
employ one ? 

No, he would not ! If his hounds could not catch 
Bras-Coupe, why, let him go. The overseer tried the 
hounds once more and came home with the best one 
across his saddle-bow, an arrow run half through its side. 

Once the blacks attempted by certain familiar rum- 
pourings and nocturnal charm-singing to lift the curse ; 
but the moment the master heard the wild monotone of 
their infernal worship, he stopped it with a word. 

Early in February came the spring, and with it some 


THE STORY OF BRAS-COUP^, CONTINUED. 24 1 

resurrection of hope and courage. It may have been— < 
it certainly was, in part — because young Honors Gran* 
dissime had returned. He was like the sun’s warmth 
wherever he went ; and the other Honors was like his 
shadow. The fairer one quickly saw the meaning of 
these things, hastened to cheer the young don with 
hopes of a better future, and to effect, if he could, the 
restoration of Bras-Coup^ to his master’s favor. But 
this latter effort was an idle one. He had long sittings 
with his uncle Agricola to the same end, but they always 
ended fruitless and often angrily. 

His dark half-brother had seen Palmyre and loved 
her. Honors would gladly have solved one or two rid- 
dles by effecting their honorable union in marriage. The 
previous ceremony on the Grandissime back piazza need 
be no impediment ; all slave-owners understood those 
things. Following Honors’s advice, the f. m. c., who 
had come into posession of his paternal portion, sent to 
Cannes Bruises a written offer, to buy Palmyre at any 
price that her master might name, stating his intention 
to free her and make her his wife. Colonel De Grapion 
could hardly hope to settle Palmyre’s fate more satisfac- 
torily, yet he could not forego an opportunity to in- 
dulge his pride by following up the threat he had hung 
over Agricola to kill whosoever should give Palmyre to 
a black man. He referred the subject and the would-be 
purchaser to him. It would open up to the old braggart a 
line of retreat, thought the planter of the Cannes Bruises. 

But the idea of retreat had left Citizen Fusilier. 

She is already married,” said he to M. Honors 
Grandissime, f. m. c. ‘‘ She is the lawful wife of Bras- 
Coups ; and what God has joined together let no man 
put asunder. You know it, sirrah. You did this for 


242 


THE GRANDISSIMES, 


impudence, to make a show of your wealth. You in 
tended it as an insinuation of equality. I overlook the 
impertinence for the sake of the man whose white blood 
you carry ; but h mark you, if ever you bring your Pa- 
risian airs and self-sufficient face on a level with mine 
Sgain, h-I will slap it.” 

> The quadroon, three nights after, was so indiscreet as 
4o give him the opportunity, and he did it — at that 
quadroon ball, to which Dr. Keene alluded in talking to 
Frowenfeld. 

But Don Jose, we say, plucked up new spirit. 

Last year’s disasters were but fortune’s freaks,” he 
said. “ See, others’ crops have failed all about us.” 

The overseer shook his head. 

Cest ce maiidit cocodrV Iti bas (It is that accursed 
alligator, Bras-Coupe, down yonder in the swamp).” 

And by and by the master was again smitten with the 
same belief. He and his neighbors put in their crops 
afresh. The spring waned, summer passed, the fevers 
returned, the year wore round, but no harvest smiled. 
“ Alas ! ” cried the planters, “ we are all poor men ! ” 
The worst among the worst were the fields of Bras- 
Coupe’s master — parched and shrivelled. He does 
not understand planting,” said his neighbors; neither 
does his overseer. Maybe, too, it is true as he says, 
that he is voudoued.” 

One day at high noon the master was taken sick with 
fever. 

The third noon after — the sad wife sitting by the bed- 
side — suddenly, right in the centre of the room, with 
the open door behind him, stood the magnificent, half- 
nude form of Bras-Coupe. He did not fall down as the 
mistress’s eyes met his, though all his flesh quivered. 


THE STORY OF BRAS-COUPA, CONTINUED. 243 

The master was lying with his eyes closed. The fever 
had done a fearful three days’ work. 

Mioko-koanga ouU so' femme (Bras- Coupe wants his 
wife).” 

The master started wildly and stared upon his slave. 

** Bras- Coupe oiile so' femme I ” repeated the black. 

Seize him ! ” cried the sick man, trying to rise. 

But, though several servants had ventured in with 
frightened faces, none dared molest the giant. The 
master turned his entreating eyes upon his wife, but 
she seemed stunned, and only covered her face with 
her hands and sat as if paralyzed by a foreknowledge 
of what was coming. 

Bras-Coupe lifted his great, black palm and com- 
menced : 

Mo voiidrai que la maison ci la et tout ga qui pas 
femme' ici s' raie^it encore maudits ! (May this house 
and all in it who are not women be accursed).” 

The master fell back upon his pillow with a groan of 
helpless wrath. 

The African pointed his finger through the open window. 

“ May its fields not know the plough nor nourish the 
cattle that overrun it.” 

The domestics, who had thus far stood their ground, 
suddenly rushed from the room like stampeded cattle, 
and at that moment appeared Palmyre. 

“ Speak to him,” faintly cried the panting invalid. 

She went firmly up to her husband and lifted her 
hand. With an easy motion, but quick as lightning, as 
a lion sets foot on a dog, he caught her by the arm. 

Bras- Coiip^ oule so' femme y" he said, and just then 
Palmyre would have gone with him to the equator. 

“ You shall not have her ! ” gasped the master. 


H4 


THE GRANDISSIMES, 


The African seemed to rise in height, and still hold« 
ing his wife at arm’s length, resumed his malediction : 

“ May weeds cover the ground until the air is full of 
their odor and the wild beasts of the forest come and 
lie down under their cover.” 

With a frantic effort the master lifted himself upon 
his elbow and extended his clenched fist in speechless 
defiance ; but his brain reeled, his sight went out, and 
when again he saw, Palmyre and her mistress were 
bending over him, the overseer stood awkwardly by, 
and Bras- Coupe was gone. 

The plantation became an invalid camp. The words 
of the voudou found fulfilment on every side. The 
plough went not out ; the herds wandered through broken 
hedges from field to field and came up with staring 
bones and shrunken sides ; a frenzied mob of weeds and 
thorns wrestled and throttled each other in a struggle 
for standing-room — rag-weed, smart-weed, sneeze-weed, 
bind-weed, iron-weed — until the burning skies of mid- 
summer checked their growth and crowned their un- 
shorn tops with rank and dingy flowers. 

Why in the name of — St. Francis,” asked the priest 
of the overseer, didn’t the seftora use her power over 
the black scoundrel when he stood and cursed, that 
day ? ” 

“ Why, to tell you the truth, father,” said the over- 
seer, in a discreet whisper, I can only suppose she 
thought Bras-Coupe had half a right to do it.” 

“Ah, ah, I see; like her brother Honore — looks at 
both sides of a question — a miserable practice ; but 
why couldn’t Palmyre use her eyes ? They would have 
stopped him.” 

“ Palmyre ? Why Palmyre has become the best mon 


THE STORY OF BRAS-COUPE, CONTINUED, 245 


ture (Plutonian medium) in the parish. Agricola Fusi- 
lier himself is afraid of her. Sir, I think sometimes 
Bras-Coupe is dead and his spirit has gone into Pal- 
myre. She would rather add to his curse than take from 

it.*' 

Ah ! *’ said the jovial divine, with a fat smile, ** cas- 
tigation would help her case ; the whip is a great sanc- 
tifier. I fancy it would even make a Christian of the 
"inexpugnable Bras-Coupe.*’ 

But Bras-Coup4 kept beyond the reach alike of the 
lash and of the Latin Bible. 

By and by came a man with a rumor, whom the over- 
seer brought to the master’s sick-room, to tell that an 
enterprising Frenchman was attempting to produce a 
new staple in Louisiana, one that worms would not an- 
nihilate. It was that year of history when the despair- 
ing planters saw ruin hovering so close over them that 
they cried to heaven for succor. Providence raised up 
Etienne de Bore. ** And if Etienne is successful,” cried 
the news-bearer, and gets the juice of the sugar-cane 
to crystallize, so shall all of us, after him, and shall yet 
save our lands and homes. Oh, Seftor, it will make 
you strong again to see these fields all cane and the 
long rows of negroes and negresses cutting it, whik 
they sing their song of those droll African numerals, 
counting the canes they cut,” and the bearer of good 
tidings sang them for very joy : 



^ Au - mon-dt*, Au - tap - o - tts Au - pa - to - t6, Au que • oud. Bo. 


246 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


‘'And Honore Grandissime is going to introduce it 
on his lands,” said Don Jose. 

“That is true,” said Agricola Fusilier, coming in. 
Honore, the indefatigable peace-maker, had brought 
his uncle and his brother-in-law for the moment not only 
to speaking but to friendly terms. 

The seftor smiled. 

“ I have some good tidings, too,” he said ; “ my be- 
loved lady has borne me a son.” 

“ Another scion of the house of Grand 1 mean 

Martinez!” exclaimed Agricola. “And now, Don 
Jose, let me say that I have an item of rare intelli- 
gence I ” 

The don lifted his feeble head and opened his inquir- 
ing eyes with a sudden, savage light in them. 

“ No,” said Agricola, “ he is not exactly taken yet, 
but they are on his track.” 

“Who?” 

“The police. We may say he is virtually in our 
grasp.” 

It was on a Sabbath afternoon that a band of Choc- 
taws having just played a game of racquette behind the 
city and a similar game being about to end between the 
white champions of two rival faubourgs, the beating of 
tom-toms, rattling of mules’ jaw-bones and sounding of 
wooden horns drew the populace across the fields to a 
spot whose present name of Congo Square still pre- 
serves a reminder of its old barbaric pastimes. On a 
grassy plain under the ramparts, the performers of these 
hideous discords sat upon the ground facing each other, 
and in their midst the dancers danced. They gyrated 
in couples, a few at a time, throwing their bodies into 


THE STORY OF BRAS-COUpA, CONTINUED. 247 

the most startling attitudes and the wildest contortions, 
while the whole company of black lookers-on, incited 
by the tones of the weird music and the violent postur- 
ing of the dancers, swayed and writhed in passionate 
sympathy, beating their breasts, palms and thighs in 
time with the bones and drums, and at frequent inter- 
vals lifting, in that wild African unison no more to be 
described than forgotten, the unutterable songs of the 
Babouille and Counjaille dances, with their ejaculatory 
burdens of Aie / Aie ! Voudou Magnan ! ” and “ Aie 
Calinda ! Danc^ Calinda / ” The volume of sound 
rose and fell with the augmentation or diminution of 
the dancers’ extravagances. Now a fresh man, young 
and supple, bounding into the ring, revived the flagging 
rattlers, drummers and trumpeters ; now a wearied dan- 
cer, finding his strength going, gathered all his force at 
the cry of Danc^ zisqu a mortf' rallied to a grand 
finale and with one magnificent antic, fell, foaming at 
the mouth. 

The amusement had reached its height. Many parti- 
cipants had been lugged out by the neck to avoid their 
being danced on, and the enthusiasm had risen to a 
frenzy, when there bounded into the ring the blackest 
of black men, an athlete of superb figure, in breeches of 
“ Indienne ” — the stuff used for slave women’s best 
dresses — ^jingling with bells, his feet in moccasins, his 
tight, crisp hair decked out with feathers, a necklace of 
alligator’s teeth rattling on his breast and a living serpent 
twined about his neck. 

It chanced that but one couple was dancing. Whether 
they had been sent there by advice of Agricola is not 
certain. Snatching a tambourine from a bystander as 
he entered, the stranger thrust the male dancer aside, 


248 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


faced the woman and began a series of saturnalian an- 
tics, compared with which all that had gone before was 
tame and sluggish ; and as he finally leaped, with tink- 
ling heels, clean over his bewildered partner's head, the 
multitude howled with rapture. 

Ill-starred Bras-Coupe. He was in that extra-hazard- 
ous and irresponsible condition of mind and body known 
in the undignified present as ‘‘ drunk again.” 

By the strangest fortune, if not, as we have just hinted, 
by some design, the man whom he had once deposited 
in the willow bushes, and the woman Clemence, were 
the very two dancers, and no other, whom he had inter- 
rupted. The man first stupidly regarded, next admir- 
ingly gazed upon, and then distinctly recognized, his 
whilom driver. Five minutes later the Spanish police 
were putting their heads together to devise a quick and 
permanent capture ; and in the midst of the sixth min- 
ute, as the wonderful fellow was rising in a yet more as- 
tounding leap than his last, a lasso fell about his neck 
and brought him, crashing like a burnt tree, face upward 
upon the turf. 

‘‘ The runaway slave,” said the old French code, con- 
tinued in force by the Spaniards, *‘the runaway slave 
who shall continue to be so for one month from the day 
of his being denounced to the officers of justice, shall 
have his ears cut off and shall be branded with the flower 
de luce on the shoulder ; and on a second offence of the 
same nature, persisted in during one month of his being 
denounced, he shall be hamstrung, and be marked with 
the flower de luce on the other shoulder. On the third 
offence he shall die.” Bras Coupe had run away only 
twice. “ But,” said Agricola, “ these ‘ bossals ’ must be 
taught their place. Besides, there is Article 27 of the 


THE STORY OF BRAS-COUP&, CONTINUED. 249 

same code : * The slave who, having struck his master, 
shall have produced a bruise, shall suffer capital punish- 
ment’ — a very necessary law ! ” He concluded with a 
scowl upon Palmyre, who shot back a glance which he 
never forgot. 

The Spaniard showed himself very merciful — for a 
Spaniard ; he spared the captive’s life. He might have 
been more merciful still ; but Honore Grandissime said 
some indignant things in the African’s favor, and as 
much to teach the Grandissimes a lesson as to punish 
the runaway, he would have repented his clemency, as 
he repented the momentary truce with Agricola, but for 
the tearful pleading of the sefiora and the hot, dry eyes 
of her maid. Because of these he overlooked the offence 
against his person and estate, and delivered Bras-Coupe 
to the law to suffer only the penalties of the crime he had 
committed against society by attempting to be a free man. 

We repeat it for the credit of Palmyre, that she pleaded 
for Bras-Coupe. But what it cost her to make that in 
tercession, knowing that his death would leave her free, 
and that if he lived she must be his wife, let us not 
attempt to say. 

In the midst of the ancient town, in a part which is 
now crumbling away, stood the Calaboza, with its humia 
vaults, grated cells, iron cages and its whips ; and there, 
soon enough, they strapped Bras-Coupe face downward 
and laid on the lash. And yet not a sound came from 
the mutilated but unconquered African to annoy the ear 
of the sleeping city. 

(** And you suffered this thing to take place ? ” asked 
Joseph Frowenfeld of Honore Grandissime. 

“ My-de’-seh ! ” exclaimed the Creole, “ they lied to 
me — said they would not harm him ! ”) 

II* 


250 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


He was brought at sunrise to the plantation. The aif 
was sweet with the smell of the weed-grown fields. The 
long-horned oxen that drew him and the naked boy that 
drove the team stopped before his cabin. 

You cannot put that creature in there,” said the 
•houghtful overseer. ** He would suffocate under a roof— ^ 
he has been too long out-of-doors for that. Put him on 
my cottage porch.” There, at last, Palmyre burst into 
tears and sank down, while before her on a soft bed of dry 
grass, rested the helpless form of the captive giant, a cloth 
thrown over his galled back, his ears shorn from his 
head, and the tendons behind his knees severed. His 
eyes were dry, but there was in them that unspeakable 
despair that fills the eye of the charger when, fallen in 
battle, he gazes with sidewise-bended neck upon the 
ruin wrought upon him. His eye turned sometimes 
slowly to his wife. He need not demand her now — she 
was always by him. 

There was much talk over him — much idle talk ; no 
power or circumstance has ever been found that will 
keep a Creole from talking. He merely lay still under 
it with a fixed frown ; but once some incautious tongue 
dropped the name of Agricola. The black man’s eyes 
came so quickly round to Palmyre that she thought he 
would speak ; but no ; his words were all in his eyes. 
She answered their gleam with a fierce affirmative glance, 
whereupon he slowly bent his head and spat upon the 
floor. 

There was yet one more trial of his wild nature. The 
mandate came from his master’s sick-bed that he must 
lift the curse. 

Bras-Coupe merely smiled. God keep thy enemy 
from such a smile ! 


THE STORY OF BRAS-COUP^:, CONTINUED. 251 

The overseer, with a policy less Spanish than his nias< 
ter’s, endeavored to use persuasion. But the fallen 
prince would not so much as turn one glance from his 
parted hamstrings. Palmyre was then besought to inter- 
cede. She made one poor attempt, but her husband 
was nearer doing her an unkindness than ever he had 
been before ; he made a slow sign for silence — with his 
fist ; and every mouth was stopped. 

At midnight following, there came, on the breeze that 
blew from the mansion, a sound of running here and 
there, of wailing and sobbing — another Bridegroom was 
coming, and the Spaniard, with much such a lamp in 
hand as most of us shall be found with, neither burning 
brightly nor wholly gone out, went forth to meet Him. 

“ Bras-Coupe,” said Palmyre, next evening, speaking 
low in his mangled ear, the master is dead ; he is just 
buried. As he was dying, Bras-Coupe, he asked that 
you would forgive him.” 

The maimed man looked steadfastly at his wife. He 
had not spoken since the lash struck him, and he spoke 
not now ; but in those large, clear eyes, where his re- 
maining strength seemed to have taken refuge as in a 
citadel, the old fierceness flared up for a moment, and 
then, like an expiring beacon, went out. 

Is your mistress well enough by this time to venture 
here?” whispered the overseer to Palmyre. ** Let her 
come. Tell her not to fear, but to bring the babe — in 
her own arms, tell her — quickly ! ” 

The lady came, her infant boy in her arms, knelt down 
beside the bed of sweet grass and set the child within 
the hollow of the African’s arm. Bras-Coup^ turned 
his gaze upon it ; it smiled, its mother’s smile, and put 
its hand upon the runaway’s face, and the first tears of 


252 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


Bras-Coupe’s life, the dying testimony of his humanity, 
gushed from his eyes and rolled down his cheek upon 
the infant's hand. He laid his own tenderly upon the 
babe’s forehead, then removing it, waved it abroad, inau- 
dibly moved his lips, dropped his arm, and closed his 
eyes. The curse was lifted. 

** Le pauv dgiaV ! ” said the overseer, wiping his 
eyes and looking fieldward. Palmyre, you must get 
the priest.” 

The priest came, in the identical gown in which he 
had appeared the night of the two weddings. To the 
good father’s many tender questions Bras-Coup^ turned 
a failing eye that gave no answers ; until, at length : 

Do you know where you are going?” asked the 
holy man. 

Yes,” answered his eyes, brightening. 

Where ? ” 

He did not reply ; he was lost in contemplation, and 
seemed looking far away. 

So the question was repeated. 

“ Do you know where you are going ? ” 

And again the answer of the eyes. He knew. 

Where?” 

The overseer at the edge of the porch, the widow with 
her babe, and Palmyre and the priest bending over the 
dying bed, turned an eager ear to catch the answer. 

** To — ” the voice failed a moment; the departing 
hero essayed again ; again it failed ; he tried once more, 
lifted his hand, and with an ecstatic, upward smile, whis* 
pered, “ To — Africa” — and was gone. 


CHAPTER XXX. 


PARALYSIS. 

As we have said, the story of Bras-Coup^ was told 
that day three times : to the Grandissime beauties once, 
to Frowenfeld twice. The fair Grandissimes all agreed, 
at the close, that it was pitiful. Specially, that it was a 
great pity to have hamstrung Bras-Coupe, a man who 
even in his cursing had made an exception in favor of 
the ladies. True, they could suggest no alternative ; it 
was undeniable that he had deserved his fate ; still, it 
seemed a pity. They dispersed, retired and went to 
sleep confirmed in this sentiment. In P'rowenfeld the 
story stirred deeper feelings. 

On this same day, while it was still early morning. 
Honors Grandissime, f. m. c., with more than even his 
wonted slowness of step and propriety of rich attire, had 
reappeared in the shop of the rue Royale. He did not 
need to say he desired another private interview. 
Frowenfeld ushered him silently and at once into his 
rear room, offered him a chair (which he accepted), and 
sat down before him. 

In his labored way the quadroon stated his knowledge 
that Frowenfeld had been three times to the dwelling 
of Palmyre Philosophe. Why, he further intimated, 
he knew not, nor would he ask ; but he — when he had 
applied for admission — had been refused. He had laid 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


254 

open his heart to the apothecary’s eyes — It may have 
been unwisely ” 

Frowenfeld interrupted him ; Palmyre had been ill for 
several days ; Doctor Keene — who, Mr. Grandissime 
probably knew, was her physician 

The landlord bowed, and Frowenfeld went on to ex- 
plain that Doctor Keene, while attending her, had also 
fallen sick and had asked him to take the care of this one 
case until he could himself resume it. So there, in a 
word, was the reason why Joseph had, and others had 
not, been admitted to her presence. 

As obviously to the apothecary’s eyes as anything 
intangible could be, a load of suffering was lifted from 
the quadroon’s mind, as this explanation was concluded. 
Yet he only sat in meditation before his tenant, who re- 
garded him long and sadly. Then, seized with one of 
his energetic impulses, he suddenly said : 

“Mr. Grandissime, you area man of intelligence, ac- 
complishments, leisure and wealth ; why ” (clenching 
his fists and frowning), “ why do you not give yourself — 
your time — wealth — attainments — energies — everything 
— to the cause of the down-trodden race with which 
this community’s scorn unjustly compels you to rank 
yourself? ” 

The quadroon did not meet Frowenfeld’s kindled eyes 
for a moment, and when he did, it was slowly and 
dejectedly. 

“ He canno’ be,” he said, and then, seeing his words 
were not understood, he added : “ He ’ave no Cause. 
Dad peop’ ’ave no Cause.” He went on from this with 
many pauses and gropings after words and idiom, to 
tell with a plaintiveness that seemed to Fr^^wenfeld 
almost unmanly, the reasons why the people a little of 


PARAL VSIS. 


255 


whose blood had been enough to blast his life, would 
never be free by the force of their own arm. Reduced 
to the meanings which he vainly tried to convey in 
words, his statement was this : that that people was not 
a people. Their cause — was in Africa. They upheld 
it there — they lost it there — and to those that are here 
the struggle w^as over ; they were, one and all, prisoners 
of war. 

‘‘You speak of them in the third person,” said 
Frowenfeld. 

“ Ah ham nod a slev.” 

“ Are you certain of that ? ” asked the tenant. 

His landlord looked at him. 

“ It seems to me,” said Frowenfeld, “ that you — your 
class — the free quadroons — are the saddest slaves of all. 
Your men, for a little property, and your women, for a 
little amorous attention, let themselves be shorn even 
of the virtue of discontent, and for a paltry bait of sham 
freedom have consented to endure a tyrannous con- 
tumely which flattens them into the dirt like grass under 
a slab. I would rather be a runaway in the swamps 
than content myself with such a freedom. As your class 
stands before the world to-day — free in form but slaves 
in spirit — you are — I do not know but I was almost 
ready to say — a warning to philanthropists ! ” 

The free man of color slowly arose. 

“ I trust you know,” said Frowenfeld, “that I say 
nothing in offence.” 

“ Havery word is tru’,” replied the sad man. 

“Mr. Grandissime,” said the apothecary, as his land* 
lord sank back again into his seat, “ I know you are a 
broken-hearted man.” 

The quadroon laid his fist upon his heart and looked up. 


256 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


** And being broken-hearted, you are thus specially 
fitted for a work of patient and sustained self-sacrifice. 
You have only those things to lose which grief has 
taught you to despise — ease, money, display. Give 
yourself to your people — to those, I mean, who groan, 
or should groan, under the degraded lot which is theirs 
and yours in common.’' 

The quadroon shook his head, and after a moment’s 
silence, answered : 

Ah cannod be one Toussaint I’Ouverture. Ah can* 
nod trah to be. Hiv I trah, I h-only s’all soogceed to 
be one Bras-Coup^.” 

“You entirely misunderstand me,” said Frowenfeld 
in quick response. “ I have no stronger disbelief than 
my disbelief in insurrection. I believe that to every 
desirable end there are two roads, the way of strife and 
the way of peace. I can imagine a man in your place, 
going about among his people, stirring up their minds 
to a noble discontent, laying out his means, sparingly 
here and bountifully there, as in each case might seem 
wisest, for their enlightenment, their moral elevation, 
their training in skilled work ; going, too, among the 
men of the prouder caste, among such as have a spirit 
of fairness, and seeking to prevail with them for a pub- 
lic recognition of the rights of all ; using all his cunning 
to show them the double damage of all oppression, both 
great and petty ” 

The quadroon motioned “enough.” There was a 
heat in his eyes which Frowenfeld had never seen 
before. 

“ M’sieu’,” he said, “ waid till Agricola Fusilier ees 
keel.” 

“ Do you mean * dies * ? ” 


PARALYSIS, 


^S7 


No,” insisted the quadroon; *Misten.” And with 
slow, painstaking phrase this man of strong feeling and 
feeble will (the trait of his caste) told — as Frowenfeld 
felt he would do the moment he said ‘‘listen ” — such 
part of the story of Bras-Coupe as showed how he came 
by his deadly hatred of Agricola. 

“ Tale me,” said the landlord, as he concluded the 
recital, “ w’y deen Bras-Coupe mague dad curze on 
Agricola Fusilier? Becoze Agricola ees one sorcier 1 
Elz ’e bin dade sinz long tamm.” 

The speaker’s gestures seemed to imply that his own 
hand, if need be, would have brought the event to pass. 

As he rose to say adieu, Frowenfeld, without previous 
intention, laid a hand upon his visitor’s arm. 

“ Is there no one who can make peace between 
you ? ” 

The landlord shook his head. 

“ ’Tis impossib’ ; we don’ wand.” 

“ I mean,” insisted Frowenfeld, “ is there no man 
who can stand between you and those who wrong you, 
and effect a peaceful reparation ? ” 

The landlord slowly moved away, neither he nor his 
tenant speaking, but each knowing that the one man in 
the minds of both, as a possible peace-maker, was 
Honors Grandissime. 

“Should the opportunity offer,” continued Joseph, 

‘ may I speak a word for you myself? ” 

The quadroon paused a moment, smiled politely 
though bitterly, and departed repeating again : 

“ ’Tis impossib’. We don’ wand.” 

“ Palsied,” murmured Frowenfeld, looking after him, 
regretfully, — “ like all of them.” 

Frowenfeld’s thoughts were still on the same theme 


THE GRANDISSIMES, 


258 

when, the day having passed, the hour was approach* 
ing wherein Raoul Innerarity was exhorted to tell his 
good-night story in the merry circle at the distant Gran- 
dissime mansion. As the apothecary was closing his last 
door for the night, the fairer Honors called him out into 
the moonlight. 

Withered,” the student was saying audibly to him- 
self, “ not in the shadow of the Ethiopian, but in the 
glare of the white man.” 

Who is withered? ” pleasantly demanded Honore. 

The apothecary started slightly. 

Did I speak ? How do you do, sir ? I meant the 
free quadroons.” 

** Including the gentleman from whom you rent your 
store ? ” 

“ Yes, him especially ; he told me this morning the 
story of Bras-Coup^.” 

M. Grandissime laughed. Joseph did not see why, 
nor did the laugh sound entirely genuine. 

“Do not open your door, Mr. Frowenfeld,” said the 
Creole. “ Get your great-coat and cane and come take 
a walk with me ; I will tell you the same story.” 

It was two hours before they approached this door 
again on their return. Just before they reached it, 
Honore stopped under the huge street-lamp, whose 
light had gone out, where a large stone lay before him 
on the ground in the narrow, moonlit street. There was 
a tall, unfinished building at his back. 

“ Mr. Frowenfeld,” — he struck the stone with his 
cane, — “ this stone is Bras-Coup^ — we cast it aside be- 
cause it turns the edge of our tools.” 

He laughed. He had laughed to-night more than 
was comfortable to a man of Frowenfeld’s quiet mind. 


PARAL VSIS. 


259 


As the apothecary thrust his shop-key into the lock 
and so paused to hear his companion, who had begun 
again to speak, he wondered what it could be — for M. 
Grandissime had not disclosed it — that induced such a 
man as he to roam aimlessly, as it seemed, in deserted 
streets at such chill and dangerous hours. “ What does 
he want with me ? ” The thought was so natural that 
it was no miracle the Creole read it. 

“ Well,” said he, smiling and taking an attitude, “ you 
are a great man for causes, Mr. Frowenfeld ; but me, I 
am for results, ha, ha! You may ponder the philoso- 
phy of Bras-Coupe in your study, but / have got to get 
rid of his results, me. You know them.” 

** You tell me it revived a war where you had made a 
peace,” said Frowenfeld. 

Yes — yes — that is his results ; but good-night, Mr. 
Frowenfeld.” 

** Good-night, sir.” 


CHAPTER XXXL 


ANOTHER WOUND IN A NEW PLACE. 

Each day found Doctor Keene’s strength increasing, 
and on the morning following the incidents last recorded 
he was imprudently projecting an out-door promenade. 
An announcement from Honore Grandissime, who had 
paid an early call, had, to that gentleman’s no small 
surprise, produced a sudden and violent effect on the 
little man’s temper. 

He was sitting alone by his window, looking out 
upon the levee, when the apothecary entered the apart- 
ment. 

“ Frowenfeld,” he instantly began, with evident dis- 
pleasure most unaccountable to Joseph, ** I hear you 
have been visiting the Nancanous.” 

“Yes, I have been there.” 

“ Well, you had no business to go ! ” 

Doctor Keene smote the arm of his chair with his 
fist. 

Frowenfeld reddened with indignation, but suppressed 
his retort. He stood still in the middle of the floor, 
and Doctor Keene looked out of the window. 

“ Doctor Keene,” said the visitor, when this attitude 
was no longer tolerable, “ have you anything more to 
say to me before I leave you ? ” 

“ No, sir.” 


ANOTHER WOUND IN A NEW PLACE. 26 1 

It is necessary for me, then, to say that in fulfil- 
ment of my promise, I am going from here to the house 
of Palmyre, and that she will need no further attention 
after to-day. As to your present manner toward me, I 
shall endeavor to suspend judgment until I have some 
knowledge of its cause.” 

The doctor made no reply, but went on looking out 
of the window, and Frowenfeld turned and left him. 

As he arrived in the Philosophe’s sick-chamber — • 
where he found her sitting in a chair set well back from 
a small fire — she half whispered “ Miche ” with a fine, 
greeting smile, as if to a brother after a week’s absence. 
To a person forced to lie abed, shut away from occupa- 
tion and events, a day is ten, three are a month : not 
merely in the wear and tear upon the patience, but also 
in the amount of thinking and recollecting done. It 
was to be expected, then, that on this, the apothecary’s 
fourth visit, Palmyre would have learned to take pleasure 
in his coming. 

But the smile was followed by a faint, momentary 
frown, as if Frowenfeld had hardly returned it in kind. 
Likely enough, he had not. He was not distinctively a 
man of smiles ; and as he engaged in his appointed task 
she presently thought of this. 

“This wound is doing so well,” said Joseph, still en- 
gaged with the bandages, “ that I shall not need to 
come again.” He was not looking at her as he spoke, 
but he felt her give a sudden start. What is this ? ” he 
thought, but presently said very quietly : “ With the as- 
sistance of your slave woman, you can now attend to 
it yourself.” 

She made no answer. 

When, with a bow, he would have bade her good- 


262 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


morning, she held out her hand for his. After a barely 
perceptible hesitation, he gave it, whereupon she held it 
fast, in a way to indicate that there was something to be 
said which he must stay and hear. 

She looked up into his face. She may have been 
merely framing in her mind the word or two of English 
she was about to utter ; but an excitement shone through 
her eyes and reddened her lips, and something sent out 
from her countenance a look of wild distress. 

“ You goin’ tell ’im ? ” she asked. 

*'Who? Agricola?” 

Non ! ” 

He spoke the next name more softly. 

“ Honor^ ? ” 

Her eyes looked deeply into his for a moment, then 
dropped, and she made a sign of assent. 

He was about to say that Honore knew already, but 
saw no necessity for doing so, and changed his answer. 

I will never tell any one.” 

You know ? ” she asked, lifting her eyes for an in- 
stant. She meant to ask if he knew the motive that 
had prompted her murderous intent. 

I know your whole sad history.” 

She looked at him for a moment, fixedly ; then, still 
holding his hand with one of hers, she threw the other 
to her face and turned away her head. He thought she 
moaned. 

Thus she remained for a few moments, then suddenly 
she turned, clasped both hands about his, her face 
flamed up and she opened her lips to speak, but speech 
failed. An expression of pain and supplication came 
upon her countenance, and the cry burst from her ; 

Meg ’im to love me I ” 


ANOTHER WOUND IN A NEW PLACE. 263 

He tried to withdraw his hand, but she held it fast, 
and, looking up imploringly with her wide, electric eyes, 
cried : 

“ Vous pouvez le fairCy vous pouvez le faire (you can 
do it, you can do it) ; vous etes sorcier, mo comi^ bieji 
vous Hes sorcier (you are a sorcerer, I know).” 

However harmless or healthful Joseph’s touch might 
be to the Philosophe, he felt now that hers, to him, was 
poisonous. He dared encounter her eyes, her touch, 
her voice, no longer. The better man in him was suffo- 
cating. He scarce had power left to liberate his right 
hand with his left, to seize his hat and go. 

Instantly she rose from her chair, threw herself on 
her knees in his path, and found command of his lan- 
guage sufficient to cry as she lifted her arms, bared of 
their drapery : 

“ Oh, my God ! don’ rif-used me — don’ rif-used me ! ” 

There was no time to know whether Frowenfeld wav- 
ered or not. The thought flashed into his mind that in 
all probability all the care and skill he had spent upon 
the wound was being brought to naught in this moment 
of wild posturing and excitement ; but before it could 
have effect upon his movements, a stunning blow fell 
upon the back of his head, and Palmyre’s slave woman, 
the Congo dwarf, under the impression that it was the 
most timely of strokes, stood brandishing a billet of pine 
and preparing to repeat the blow. 

He hurled her, snarling and gnashing like an ape, 
against the farther wall, cast the bar from the street- 
door and plunged out, hatless, bleeding, and stunned. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 


INTERRUPTED PRELIMINARIES. 

About the same time of day, three gentlemen (we 
use the term gentlemen in its petrified state) were walk* 
ing down the rue Royale from the direction of the Fau- 
bourg Ste. Marie. 

They were coming down toward Palmyre’s corner 
The middle one, tall and shapely, might have been mis' 
taken at first glance for Honore Grandissime, but was 
taller and broader, and wore a cocked hat, which Ho- 
nore did not. It was Valentine. The short, black- 
bearded man in buckskin breeches on his right was Jean- 
Baptiste Grandissime, and the slight one on the left, 
who, with the prettiest and most graceful gestures and 
balancings, was leading the conversation, was Hippolyte 
Brahmin-Mandarin, a cousin and counterpart of that 
sturdy-hearted challenger of Agricola, Sylvestre. 

“ But after all,” he was saying in Louisiana French, 
“ there is no spot comparable, for comfortable seclusion, 
to the old orange grove under the levee on the Point ; 
twenty minutes in a skiff, five minutes for preliminaries 
— you would not want more, the ground has been meas- 
ured off five hundred times — * are you ready ? ’ ” 

“Ah, bah!” said Valentine, tossing his head, “the 
Yankees would be down on us before you could count 
one.” 


INTERRUPTED PRELIM/NAR/ES. 2O5 

"‘Well, then, behind the Jesuits’ warehouses, if you 
insist. I don’t care. Perdition take such a govern- 
ment ! I am almost sorry I went to the governor’s re- 
ception.” 

‘‘ It was quiet, I hear; a sort of quiet ball, all prome- 
nading and no contra-dances. One quadroon ball is 
worth five of such.” 

This was the opinion of Jean-Baptiste. 

‘‘ No, it was fine, anyhow. There was a contra dance. 
The music was — tdrata joonc, tard, tard — td ta joonc, 
tardrata joonc, tard — oh ! it was the finest thing — and 
composed here. They compose as fine things here as 

they do anywhere in the look there ! That man 

came out of Palmyre’s house ; see how he staggered 
just then ! ” 

“ Drunk,” said Jean-Baptiste. 

“ No, he seems to be hurt. He has been struck on 
the head. Oho, I tell you, gentlemen, that same Pal- 
myre is a wonderful animal ! Do you see ? She not 
only defends herself and ejects the wretch, but she puts 
her mark upon him ; she identifies him, ha, ha, ha ! 
Look at the high art of the thing ; she keeps his hat as 
a small souvenir and gives him a receipt for it on the 
back of his head. Ah ! but hasn’t she taught him a 
lesson ? Why, gentlemen, — it is — if it isn’t that sor- 
cerer of an apothecary ! ” 

What ? ” exclaimed the other two ; well, well, but 
this is too good ! Caught at last, ha, ha, ha, the saintly 
villain ! Ah, ha, ha ! Will not Honore be proud of 
him now ? Ah / voila un joli Joseph / What did I tell 
you ? Didn’t I always tell you so ?. ” 

** But the beauty of it is, he is caught so cleverly. 
No escape — no possible explanation. There he is, 


266 


THE GRAND1SSIME6. 


gentlemen, as plain as a rat in a barrel, and with as plain 
a case. Ha, ha, ha ! Isn’t it just glorious ? ” 

And all three laughed in such an ecstacy of glee that 
Frowenfeld looked back, saw them, and knew forthwith 
that his good name was gone. The three gentlemen, 
with tears of merriment still in their eyes, reached a 
corner and disappeared. 

“ Mister,” said a child, trotting along under Frowen * 
feld’s elbow, — the odd English of the New Orleans 
street urchin was at that day just beginning to be heard 
— “ Mister, dey got some blood on de back of you’ 
hade ! ” 

But Frowenfeld hurried on groaning with mental an- 
guish. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 


UNKINDEST CUT OF ALL. 

It was the year 1804. The world was trembling 
under the tread of the dread Corsican. It was but now 
that he had tossed away the whole Valley of the Missis- 
sippi, dropping it overboard as a little sand from a 
balloon, and Christendom in a pale agony of suspense 
was watching the turn of his eye ; yet when a gibber- 
ing black fool here on the edge of civilization merely 
swings a pine-knot, the swinging of that pine-knot be- 
comes to Joseph Frowenfeld, student of man, a matter 
of greater moment than the destination of the Boulogne 
Flotilla. For it now became for the moment the fore- 
most necessity of his life to show, to that minute frac- 
tion of the earth’s population which our terror mis- 
names “ the world,” that a man may leap forth hatless 
and bleeding from the house of a New Orleans quad- 
roon into the open street and yet be pure white within. 
Would it answer to tell the truth ? Parts of that truth 
he was pledged not to tell ; and even if he could tell it 
all it was incredible — bore all the features of a flimsy 
lie. 

Mister,” repeated the same child who had spoken 
before, reinforced by another under the other elbow, 
“ dey got some blood on de back of you’ hade.” 

And the other added the suggestion : 


268 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


** Dey got one drug-sto’, yondah.” 

Frowenfeld groaned again. The knock had been a 
hard one, the ground and sky went round not a little, 
but he retained withal a white hot process of thought 
that kept before him his hopeless inability to explain. 
He was coffined alive. The world (so-called) would 
bury him in utter loathing, and write on his head-stone 
the one word — hypocrite. And he should lie there and 
helplessly contemplate Honore pushing forward those 
purposes which he had begun to hope he was to have 
had the honor of furthering. But instead of so doing 
he would now be the by-word of the street. 

Mister,” interposed the child once more, spokesman 
this time for a dozen blacks and whites of all sizes trail- 
ing along before and behind, dey got some blood on de 
back of you’ hade^ 

That same morning Clotilde had given a music-scholar 
her appointed lesson, and at its conclusion had borrowed 
of her patroness (how pleasant it must have been to have 
such things to lend !) a little yellow maid, in order that, 
with more propriety, she might make a business call. 
It was that matter of the rent — one that had of late oc- 
x:asioned her great secret distress. It is plain,” she 
had begun to say to herself, unable to comprehend Au- 
rora’s peculiar trust in Providence, “ that if the money 
is to be got I must get it.” A possibility had flashed 
upon her mind ; she had nurtured it into a project, had 
submitted it to her father-confessor in the cathedral, 
and received his unqualified approval of it, and was 
ready this morning to put it into execution. A great 
merit of the plan was its simplicity. It was merely to 
find for her heaviest bracelet a purchaser in time, and a 


UNKINDEST CUT OF ALL. 


269 


price sufficient, to pay to-morrow’s maturities.” See 
there again ! — to her, her little secret was of greater 
import than the collision of almost any pine-knot with 
almost any head. 

It must not be accepted as evidence either of her un- 
willingness to sell or of the amount of gold in the brace- 
let, that it took the total of Clotilde’s moral and physical 
strength to carry it to the shop where she hoped — against 
hope — to dispose of it. 

’Sieur Frowenfeld, M. Innerarity said, was out, but 
would certainly be in in a few minutes, and she was per- 
suaded to take a chair against the half-hidden door at 
the bottom of the shop"' with the little borrowed maid 
crouched at her feet. 

She had twice or thrice felt a regret that she had un- 
dertaken to wait, and was about to rise and go, when 
suddenly she saw before her Joseph Frowenfeld, wiping 
the sweat of anguish from his brow and smeared with 
blood from his forehead down. She rose quickly and 
silently, turned sick and blind, and laid her hand upon 
the back of the chair for support. Frowenfeld stood an 
instant before her, groaned, and disappeared through 
the door. The little maid, retreating backward against 
her from the direction of the street-door, drew to her 
attention a crowd of sight-seers which had rushed up to 
the doors and against which Raoul was hurriedly closing 
the shop. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 


CLOTILDE AS A SURGEON. 

Was it worse to stay, or to fly ? The decision must 
be instantaneous. But Raoul made it easy by crying in 
their common tongue, as he slammed a massive shutter 
and shot its bolt : 

“ Go to him ! he is down — I heard him fall. Go to 
him ! ” 

At this rallying cry she seized her shield — that is to 
say, the little yellow attendant, and hurried into the 
room. Joseph lay just beyond the middle of the apart- 
ment, face downward. She found water and a basin, 
wet her own handkerchief, and dropped to her knees be- 
side his head ; but the moment he felt the small, feminine 
hands he stood up. She took him by the arm. 

“ AsseyeZ'VOiiSy Monsieti — pliz to give you’sev de pens 
to see down, ’Sieu’ Frowenfel’.” 

She spoke with a nervous tenderness in contrast with 
her alarmed and entreating expression of face, and gently 
pushed him into a chair. 

The child ran behind the bed and burst into frightened 
sobs, but ceased when Clotilde turned for an instant and 
glared at her. 

“ Hague yo’ ’ead back,” said Clotilde, and with tremu- 
lous tenderness she softly pressed back his brow and be- 
gan wiping off the blood. ‘‘ W’ere you is 'urted ? ” 


CLO TILDE AS A SURGEON. 


271 


But while she was asking her question she had found 
the gash and was growing alarmed at its ugliness, when 
Raoul, having made everything fast, came in with : 

“ W’at’s de mattah, ’Sieur Frowenfel’ ? w’at’s de mat 
tah wid you ? Oo done dat, 'Sieur Frowenfel’ ? ” 

Joseph lifted his head and drew away from it the small 
hand and wet handkerchief, and without letting go the 
hand, looked again into Clotilde’s eyes, and said : 

Go home ; oh, go home ! ” 

“ Oh ! no,” protested Raoul, whereupon Clotilde 
turned upon him with a perfectly amiable, nurse’s grim- 
ace for silence. 

I goin’ rad now,” she said. 

Raoul’s silence was only momentary. 

W’ere you lef you’ hat, ’Sieur Frowenfel’ ? ” he 
asked, and stole an artist’s glance at Clotilde, while 
Joseph straightened up, and nerving himself to a tolera- 
ble calmness of speech, said : 

“ I have been struck with a stick of wood by a half- 
witted person under a misunderstanding of my inten- 
tions ; but the circumstances are such as to blacken my 
character hopelessly ; but I am innocent 1 ” he cried, 
stretching forward both arms and quite losing his mo- 
mentary self-control. 

“ ’Sieu’ Frowenfel’!” cried Clotilde, tears leaping to 
her eyes, “ I am shoe of it I ” 

“ I believe you I I believe you, ’Sieur Frowenfel’ 1 ” 
exclaimed Raoul with sincerity. 

“ You will not believe me,” said Joseph. “ You will 
not ; it will be impossible.” 

MaiSy' cried Clotilde, *‘id shall nod be impos- 
sib’ 1 ” 

But the apothecary shook his head. 


2^2 


THE GRANDlSErMRS, 


‘‘ All I can be suspected of will seem probable ; the 
truth only is incredible. 

His head began to sink and a pallor to overpread his 
face. 

AlleZy monsieur y alleZy' cried Clotilde to Raoul, a 
picture of beautiful terror which he tried afterward to 
paint from memory, “ appelez Doctah Kin ! ” 

Raoul made a dash for his hat, and the next moment 
she heard, with unpleasant distinctness, his impetuous 
hand slam the shop door and lock her in. 

** Bailie nia do VeaUy' she called to the little mulat- 
tress, who responded by searching wildly for a cup and 
presently bringing a measuring-glass full of water. 

Clotilde gave it to the wounded man, and he rose at 
once and stood on his feet. 

“Raoul.” 

“ ’E gone at Doctah Kin.” 

“ I do not need Doctor Keene ; I am not badly hurt. 
Raoul should not have left you here in this manner. 
You must not stay.” 

“ Bud, ’Sieur Frowenfel’, I am afred to trah to paz 
dad gangue ! ” 

A new distress seized Joseph in view of this additional 
complication. But, unmindful of this suggestion, the 
fair Creole suddenly exclaimed : 

“ ’Sieu’ Frowenfel’, you har a hinnocen’ man ! Go, 
hopen yo’ do’s an’ stan’ juz as you har ub biffo dad 
crowd and sesso 1 My God ! ’Sieu’ Frowenfel’, iv you 
cannod stan’ ub by you’sev ” 

She ceased suddenly with a wild look, as if another 
word would have broken the levees of her eyes, and in that 
instant Frowenfeld recovered the full stature of a man. 

“ God bless you ! ” he cried. “ I will do it I ” He 


CLO TILDE AS A SURGEON. 


273 


started, then turned again toward her, dumb for an in- 
stant, and said : “ And God reward you ! You believe 
in me, and you do not even know me.” 

Her eyes became wilder still as she looked up into his 
face with the words : 

MatSy I does know you — betteh ’n you know anny« 
t’in’ boud it ! ” and turned away, blushing violently. 

Frowenfeld gave a start. She had given him too 
much light. He recognized her, and she knew it. For 
another instant he gazed at her averted face, and then 
with forced quietness said : 

** Please go into the shop.” 

The whole time that had elapsed since the shutting of 
the doors had not exceeded five minutes ; a sixth sufficed 
for Clotilde and her attendant to resume their original 
position in the nook by the private door and for Frow- 
enfeld to wash his face and hands. Then the alert and 
numerous ears without heard a drawing of bolts at the 
door next to that which Raoul had issued, its leaves 
opened outward, and first the pale hands and then the 
white, weakened face and still bloody hair and apparel 
of the apothecary made their appearance. He opened a 
window and another door. The one locked by Raoul, 
when unbolted, yielded without a key, and the shop 
stood open. 

“ My friends,” said the trembling proprietor, “ if any 
of you wishes to buy anything, I am ready to serve him. 
The rest will please move away.” 

The invitation, though probably understood, was re- 
sponded to by only a few at the banquette’s edge, where 
a respectable face or two wore scrutinizing frowns. The 
remainder persisted in silently standing and gazing in at 
the bloody man. 

13 * 


274 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


Frowenfeld bore the gaze. There was one element of 
emphatic satisfaction in it — it drew their observation 
from Clotilde at the other end of the shop. He stole a 
glance backward ; she was not there. She had watched 
her chance, safely escaped through the side door, and 
was gone. 

Raoul returned. 

“ ’Sieur Frowenfel’, Doctor Keene is took worse ag’in. 
’E is in bed ; but ’e say to tell you in dat lill troubl’ of 
dis mawnin’ it is himseff w’at is inti’lie wrong, an’ ’e hass 
you poddcn. ’E says sen’ fo’ Doctor Conrotte, but I din 
go fo’ him ; dat ole scoun’rel — he believe in puttin’ de 
niggas fre’.” 

Frowenfeld said he would not consult professional ad- 
visers ; with a little assistance from Raoul, he could give 
the cut the slight attention it needed. He went back 
into his room, while Raoul turned back to the door and 
addressed the public. 

“ Pray, Messieurs, come in and be seated.” He spoke 
in the Creole French of the gutters. Come in. M. 
Frowenfeld is dressing, and desires that you will have a 
little patience. Come in. Take chairs. You will not 
come in ? No ? Nor you. Monsieur ? No ? I will set 
some chairs outside, eh ? No ? ” 

They moved by twos and threes away, and Raoul, re- 
tiring, gave his employer such momentary aid as was 
required. When Joseph, in changed dress, once more 
appeared, only a child or two lingered to see him, and 
he had nothing to do but sit down and, as far as he felt 
at liberty to do so, answer his assistant’s questions. 

During the recital, Raoul was obliged to exercise the 
severest self-restraint to avoid laughing, — a feeling which 
was modified by the desire to assure his employer that 


CLO TILDE AS A SURGEON. 


275 


he understood this sort of thing perfectly, had run the 
same risks himself, and thought no less of a provid- 
ing he was a gentleman^ because of an unlucky retribu- 
tive knock on the head. But he feared laughter would 
overclimb speech ; and, indeed, with all expression of 
sympathy stifled, he did not succeed so completely in 
hiding the conflicting emotion but that Joseph did once 
turn his pale, grave face surprisedly, hearing a snuffling 
sound, suddenly stifled in a drawer of corks. Said 
Raoul, with an unsteady utterance, as he slammed the 
drawer : 

“ H-h-dat makes me dat I can’t ’elp to laugh w’en I 
t’ink of dat fool yesse’dy w’at want to buy my pigshoe 
for honly one ’undred dolla’ — ha, ha, ha, ha ! ” 

He laughed almost indecorously. 

“ Raoul,” said Frowenfeld, rising and closing his 
eyes, “I am going back for my hat. It would make 
matters worse for that person to send it to me, and it 
would be something like a vindication for me to go back 
to the house and get it.” 

Mr. Innerarity was about to make strenuous objection, 
when there came in one whom he recognized as an 
attache of his cousin Honore’s counting-room, and 
handed the apothecary a note. It contained Honor^’s 
request that if Frowenfeld was in his shop he would have 
the goodness to wait there until the writer could call and 
see him. 

I will wait,” was the reply. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 


“ FO’ WAD YOU CRYNE ? ” 

Clotilde, a Step or two from home, dismissed her 
attendant, and as Aurora, with anxious haste, opened to 
her familiar knock, appeared before her pale and 
trembling. 

‘‘ Ahy ma fille ” 

The overwrought girl dropped her head and wept 
without restraint upon her mother’s neck. She let her- 
self be guided to a chair, and there, while Aurora 
nestled close to her side, yielded a few moments to 
reverie before she was called upon to speak. Then 
Aurora first quietly took possession of her hands, and 
after another tender pause asked in English, which was 
equivalent to whispering : 

“ W’ere you was, chMe? ’* 

’Sieur Frowenfel’ ” 

Aurora straightened up with angry astonishment and 
drew in her breath for an emphatic speech, but Clotilde, 
liberating her own hands, took Aurora’s, and hurriedly 
said, turning still paler as she spoke : 

‘"’E godd his ’ead strigue ! ’Tis all knog in be’ineJ 
’E come in blidding ” 

** In w’ere ? ” cried Aurora. 

" In ’is shob.” 

“ You was in dad shob of ’Sieur Frowenfel’ ? 


FO' WAD YOU CRYNE?'* 


277 


“ I wend ad ’is shob to pay doze rend.” 

“ How — you wend ad ’is shob to pay ** 

Clotilde produced the bracelet. The two looked at 
each other in silence for a moment, while Aurora took 
in without further explanation Clotilde’s project and its 
failure. 

“An’ ’Sieur Frowenfel’ — dey kill ’im ? Ah! ma 
cherey fo’ wad you mague me to hass all doze ques- 
tion ? ” 

Clotilde gave a brief account of the matter, omitting 
only her conversation with Frowenfeld. 

Mais, 00 strigue ’im ? ” demanded Aurora, im- 
patiently. 

“ Addunno I ” replied the other. “Bud I does know 
’e is hinnocen’ I ” 

A small scouting-party of tears reappeared on the 
edge of her eyes. 

“ Innocen’ from wad ? ” 

Aurora betrayed a twinkle of amusement. 

“ Hev’ryt’in’, iv you pliz ! ” exclaimed Clotilde, with 
most uncalled-for warmth. 

“ An’ you crah bic-ause ’e is nod guiltie ? ” 

“Ah! foolish!” 

“ Ah, non, mie chile, I know fo’ wad you cryne : ’tis 
h'Only de sighd of de blood.” 

“ Oh, sighd of blood ! ” 

Clotilde let a little nervous laugh escape through her 
dejection. 

“Well, then,” — Aurora’s eyes twinkled like stars, — 

I “ id muz be bic-ause ’Sieur Frowenfel’ bump ’is ’ead — 
ha, ha, ha!” 

I “ ’T is nod true’ ! ” cried Clotilde; but, instead of 
laughing, as Aurora had supposed she would, she sent 


2/6 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


a double flash of light from her eyes, crimsoned, and 
retorted, as the tears again sprang from their lurking- 
place, ‘‘You wand to mague ligue you don’t kyah ! 
But I know ! I know verrie well ! You kyah fift}/ 
time’ as mudge as me ! I know you ! I know you ^ 
I bin wadge you ! ” 

Aurora was quite dumb for a moment, and gazed at 
Clotilde, wondering what could have made her so unlike 
herself. Then she half rose up, and, as she reached 
forward an arm, and laid it tenderly about her daugh- 
ter’s neck, said : 

“ Ma lill dotter, wad dad meggin you cry ? Iv you 
will tell me wad dad mague you cry, I will tell you — 
on ma second word of honor ” — she rolled up her fist — 
“ juz wad I thing about dad ’Sieur Frowenfel’ ! ” 

“ I don’t kyah wad de whole worl’ thing aboud 
im ! 

“ MaiSy anny’ow, tell me fo’ wad you cryne ? ” 

Clotilde gazed aside for a moment and then confronted 
her questioner consentingly. 

“ I tole ’im I knowed ’e war h-innocen’.” 

“ Ehy bieny dad was h-only de poli-i-idenez. Wad ’e 
said ? ” 

“’E said I din knowed ’im ’tall.” 

“ An’ you,” exclaimed Aurora, “it is nod pozzyble 
dad you ” 

“ I tole ’im I know ’im bette’n ’e know annyt’in’ 
’bond id ! ” 

The speaker dropped her face into her mother’s lap. 

“Ha, ha!” laughed Aurora, “an’ wad of dad? I 
would say dad, me, fo’ time’ a day. I gi’e you mie 
word ’e don godd dad sens’ to know wad dad mean.” 

“Ah! don godd sens’!” cried Clotilde, lifting her 


**F0> WAD YOU CRYNEV^ 2/9 

head up suddenly with a face of agony. ’E reg — ’e 
reggo-ni-i-ize me ! ” 

Aurora caught her daughter’s cheeks between her 
hands and laughed all over them. 

‘‘ MaiSy don you see ’ow dad was luggy ? Now, you 
know ? — ’e goin’ fall in love wid you an’ you goin’ ’ave 
dad sadizfagzion to rif-use de biggis’ hand in Noo- ’leans. 
An’ you will be h-even, ha, ha ! Bud me — you wand 
to know wad I thing aboud ’im ? I thing ’e is one — 
egcellen’ drug-cl — ah, ha, ha ! ” 

Clotilde replied with a smile of grieved incredulity. 

‘‘De bez in de ciddy ! ” insisted the other. She 
crossed the forefinger of one hand upon that of the other 
and kissed them, reversed the cross and kissed them 
again. “ MaiSy ad de sem tarn,” she added, giving her 
daughter time to smile, “ I thing ’e is one noble gen' le- 
man. Nod to sood me, of coze, maisy qa fait rien — daz 
nott’n ; me, I am now a h’ole woman, you know, eh ? 
Noboddie can’ nevva sood me no mo’, nod ivven dad 
Govenno’ Cleb-orne.” 

She tried to look old and jaded. 

“Ah, Govenno’ Cleb-orne !” exclaimed Clotilde. 

“ Yass ! — Ah, you ! — you thing iv a man is nod a 
Creole ’e bown to be no ’coun’ ! I assu’ you dey don’ 
godd no boddy wad I fine a so nize gen’leman lag 
Govenno’ Cleb-orne ! Ah ! Clotilde, you godd no 
lib’ral’ty ! ” 

The speaker rose, cast a discouraged parting look upon 
her narrow-minded companion and went to investigate 
the slumbrous silence of the kitchen. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 


aurora’s last picayune. 

Not often in Aurora’s life had joy and trembling so 
been mingled in one cup as on this day. Clotilde wept ; 
and certainly the mother’s heart could but respond ; yet 
Clotilde’s tears filled her with a secret pleasure which 
fought its way up into the beams of her eyes and asserted 
itself in the frequency and heartiness of her laugh despite 
her sincere participation in her companion’s distresses 
and a fearful looking forward to to-morrow. 

Why these flashes of gladness ? If we do not know, it is 
because we have overlooked one of her sources of trouble. 
From the night of the bal masqud s\\q had — we dare say 
no more than that she had been haunted ; she certainly 
would not at first have admitted even so much to herself. 
Yet the fact was not thereby altered, and first the fact 
and later the feeling had given her much distress of mind. 
Who he was whose image would not down, for a long 
time she did not know. This, alone, was torture ; not 
merely because it was mystery, but because it helped to 
force upon her consciousness that her affections, spite of 
her, were ready and waiting for him and he did not come 
after them. That he loved her, she knew ; she had 
achieved at the ball an overwhelming victory, to her 
certain knowledge, or, depend upon it, she never would 
have unmasked — never. 


AURORA^ S LAST PICAYUNE. 


281 


But with this torture was mingled not only the ecstasy 
of loving, but the fear of her daughter. This is a world 
that allows nothing without its obverse and reverse. 
Strange differences are often seen between the two 
sides ; and one of the strangest and most inharmonious 
in this world of human relations is that coinage which 
a mother sometimes finds herself offering to a daughter, 
and which reads on one side, Bridegroom, and on the 
other, Step-father. 

Then, all this torture to be hidden under smiles ! 
Worse still, when by and by Messieurs Agoussou, 
Assonquer, Danny and others had been appealed to and 
a Providence boundless in tender compassion had an- 
swered in their stead, she and her lover had simultane- 
ously discovered each other’s identity only to find that 
he was a Montague to her Capulet. And the source of 
her agony must be hidden, and falsely attributed to the 
rent deficiency and their unprotected lives. Its true 
nature must be concealed even from Clotilde. What a 
secret — for what a spirit — to keep from what a com- 
panion ! — a secret yielding honey to her, but, it might be, 
gall to Clotilde. She felt like one locked in the Garden 
of Eden all alone — alone with all the ravishing flowers, 
alone with all the lions and tigers. She wished she had 
told the secret when it was small and had let it increase 
by gradual accretions in Clotilde’s knowledge day by 
day. At first it had been but a garland, then it had be- 
come a chain, now it was a ball and chain ; and it was 
oh ! and oh ! if Clotilde would only fall in love herself. 
How that would simplify matters ! More than twice or 
thrice she had tried to reveal her overstrained heart in 
broken sections ; but on her approach to the very outer 
confines of the matter, Clotilde had always behaved so 


282 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


strangely, so nervously, in short, so beyond Aurora’s 
comprehension, that she invariably failed to make any 
revelation. 

And now, here in the very central darkness of this 
cloud of troubles, comes in Clotilde, throws herself upon 
the defiant little bosom so full of hidden suffering, and 
weeps tears of innocent confession that in a moment 
lay the dust of half of Aurora’s perplexities. Strange 
world ! The tears of the orphan making the widow 
weep for joy, if she only dared. 

The pair sat down opposite each other at their little 
dinner-table. They had a fixed hour for dinner. It is 
well to have a fixed hour ; it is in the direction of sys- 
tem. Even if you have not the dinner, there is the 
hour. Alphonsina was not in perfect harmony with 
this fixed-hour idea. It was Aurora’s belief, often ex- 
pressed in hungry moments with the laugh of a vexed 
Creole lady (a laugh worthy of study), that on the day 
when dinner should really be served at the appointed 
hour, the cook would drop dead of apoplexy and she of 
fright. She said it to-day, shutting her arms down to 
her side, closing her eyes with her eyebrows raised, and 
dropping into her chair at the table like a dead bird 
from its perch. Not that she felt particularly hungry ; 
but there is a certain desultoriness allowable at table 
more than elsewhere, and which suited the hither-thither 
movement of her conflicting feelings. This is why she 
had wished for dinner. 

Boiled shrimps, rice, claret-and-water, bread — they 
were dining well the day before execution. Dining is 
hardly correct, either, for Clotilde, at least, did not eat ; 
they only sat. Clotilde had, too, if not her unknown, 
at least her unconfessed emotions. Aurora’s were tossed 


AURORA^ S LAST PICAYUNE. 283 

by the waves, hers were sunken beneath them. Aurora 
had a faith that the rent would be paid — a faith which 
was only a vapor, but a vapor gilded by the sun — that 
is, by Apollo, or, to be still more explicit, by Honore 
Grandissime. Clotilde, deprived of this confidence, had 
tried to raise means wherewith to meet the dread obli< 
gation, or, rather, had tried to try and had failed. To- 
day was the ninth, to-morrow, the street. Joseph 
Frowenfeld was hurt'; her dependence upon his good 
offices was gone. When she thought of him suffering 
under public contumely, it seemed to her as if she could 
feel the big drops of blood dropping from her heart ; 
and when she recalled her own actions, speeches, and 
demonstrations in his presence, exaggerated by the 
groundless fear that he had guessed into the deepest 
springs of her feelings, then she felt those drops of blood 
congeal. Even if the apothecary had been duller of 
discernment than she supposed, here was Aurora on the 
opposite side of the table, reading every thought of her 
inmost soul. But worst of all was ’Sieur Frowenfel’s 
indifference. It is true that, as he had directed upon 
her that gaze of recognition, there was a look of mighty 
gladness, if she dared believe her eyes. But no, she 
dared not ; there was nothing there for her, she thought, 
— probably (when this anguish of public disgrace should 
by any means be lifted) a benevolent smile at her and 
her betrayal of interest. Clotilde felt as though she had 
been laid entire upon a slide of his microscope. 

Aurora at length broke her reverie. 

“ Clotilde,” — she spoke in French — “ the matter with 
you is that you have no heart. You never did have any. 
Really and truly, you do not care whether ’Sieur Frow- 
enfel’ lives or dies. You do not care how he is or where 


284 


THE GRANDISSIMES, 


he is this minute. I wish you had some of my too large 
heart. I not only have the heart, as I tell you, to think 
kindly of our enemies, doze Grandissime, for example ’* 
— she waved her hand with the air of selecting at ran- 
dom — but I am burning up to know what is the condi- 
tion of that poor, sick, noble ’Sieur Frowenfel’, and I am 
going to do it ! ” 

The heart which Clotilde was accused of not having 
gave a stir of deep gratitude. Dear, pretty little moth- 
er ! Not only knowing full well the existence of this 
swelling heart and the significance, to-day, of its every 
warm pulsation, but kindly covering up the discovery 
with make-believe reproaches. The tears started in her 
eyes ; that was her reply. 

“ Oh, now ! it is the rent again, I suppose,” cried 
Aurora, “ always the rent. It is not the rent that wor- 
ries me^ it is 'Sieur Frowenfel’, poor man. But very 
well, Mademoiselle Silence, I will match you for making 
me do all the talking.” She was really beginning to sink 
under the labor of carrying all the sprightliness for both. 
“Come,” she said, savagely, “ propose something.” 

“ Would you think well to go and inquire ? ” 

“ Ah, listen ! Go and what? No, Mademoiselle, I 
think not.” 

“ Well, send Alphonsina.” 

“ What ? And let him know that I am anxious about 
him ? Let me tell you, my little girl, I shall not drag 
upon myself the responsibility of increasing the self-con- 
ceit of any of that sex.” 

“ Well, then, send to buy a picayune’s worth of some- 
thing.” 

“ Ah, ha, ha ! An emetic, for instance. Tell him we 
are poisoned on mushrooms, ha, ha, ha! ” 


AURORA'S LAST PICAYUNE. 


285 


Clotilde laughed too. 

“Ah, no,” she Sciid. “Send for something he does 
not sell.” 

Aurora was laughing while Clotilde spoke ; but as she 
caught these words she stopped with open-mouthed as* 
tonishment, and, as Clotilde blushed, laughed again. 

“Oh, Clotilde, Clotilde, Clotilde!” — she leaned for- 
ward over the table, her face beaming with love and 
laughter — “you rowdy! you rascal! You are just as 
bad as your mother, whom you think so wicked ! I ac- 
cept your advice. Alphonsina ! ” 

“ Momselle ! ” 

The answer came from the kitchen. 

“ Come go — or, rather , — vini ^ ci courri dans boutique 
de V apothecaire, Clotilde,” she continued, in better 
French, holding up the coin to view, “ Look ! ” 

“What?” 

“ The last picayune we have in the world— ha, haj, 
ha!” 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 


HONORS MAKES SOME CONFESSIONS. 

** Comment ga va, Raoul said Honore Grandis* 
sime ; he had come to the shop according to the pro- 
posal contained in his note. “ Where is Mr. Frowen- 
feld ? ” 

He found the apothecary in the rear room, dressed, 
but just rising from the bed at sound of his voice. He 
closed the door after him ; they shook hands and took 
chairs. 

You have fever,” said the merchant. I have been 
troubled that way myself, some, lately.” He rubbed his 
face all over, hard, with one hand, and looked at the 
ceiling. “ Loss of sleep, I suppose, in both of us; in 
your case voluntary — in pursuit of study, most likely ; 
in my case — effect of anxiety.” He smiled a moment 
and then suddenly sobered as after a pause he said : 

“ But I hear you are in trouble ; may I ask ” 

Frowenfeld had interrupted him with almost the same 
words : 

“ May I venture to ask, Mr. Grandissime, what ” 

And both were silent for a moment. 

‘‘Oh,” said Honore, with a gesture. “My trouble 
— I did not mean to mention it ; ’tis an old matter — in 
part. You know, Mr. Frowenfeld, there is a kind 
of tree not dreamed of in botany, that lets fall its 


HONORt. MAKES SOME CONFESSIONS. 28 / 


fruit every day in the year — you know ? We call it 
— with reverence — ‘ our dead father’s mistakes.’ I 
have had to eat much of that fruit ; a man who has to 
do that must expect to have now and then a little 
fever.” 

“ I have heard,” replied Frowenfeld, “that some of 
the titles under which your relatives hold their lands are 
found to be of the kind which the State’s authorities 
are pronouncing worthless. I hope this is not the 
case.” 

“ I wish they had never been put into my custody,” 
said M. Grandissime. 

Some new thought moved him to draw his chair closer. 

“Mr. Frowenfeld, those two ladies whom you went 
to see the other evening ” 

His listener started a little : 

“Yes.” 

“ Did they ever tell you their history ? ” 

“ No, sir ; but I have heard it.” 

“ And you think they have been deeply wronged, 
eh? Come Mr. Frowenfeld, take right hold of the 
acacia-bush.” 

M. Grandissime did not smile. 

Frowenfeld winced. 

“ I think they have.” 

“ And you think restitution should be made them, 
no doubt, eh ? ” 

“ I do.” 

“ At any cost ? ” 

The questioner showed a faint, unpleasant smile, that 
stirred something like opposition in the breast of the 
apothecary. 

“ Yes,” he answered. 


288 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


The next question had a tincture even of fierceness : 

You think it right to sink fifty or a hundred people 
into poverty to lift one or two out ? ” 

“Mr. Grandissime,” said Frowenfeld, slowly, “you 
bade me study this community.” 

“ I adv — yes ; what is it you find ? ” 

“ I find— it may be the same with other communities, 
I suppose it is, more or less — that just upon the culmi- 
nation of the moral issue it turns and asks the question 
which is behind it, instead of the question which is be- 
fore it.” 

“ And what is the question before me ?” 

“ I know it only in the abstract.” 

“Well?” 

The apothecary looked distressed. 

“ You should not make me say it,” he objected. 

“ Nevertheless,” said the Creole, “ I take that lib- 
erty.” 

“ Well, then,” said Frowenfeld, “ the question behind 
is Expediency and the question in front, Divine Justice. 
You are asking yourself ” 

He checked himself. 

“ Which I ought to regard,” said M. Grandissime, 
quickly. “ Expediency, of course, and be like the rest 
of mankind.” He put on a look of bitter humor. “ It 
is all easy enough for you, Mr. Frowenfeld, my-de’-seh ; 
you have the easy part — the theorizing.” 

He saw the ungenerousness of his speech as soon as it 
was uttered, yet he did not modify it. 

“ True, Mr. Grandissime,” said Frowenfeld ; and after 
a pause — “ but you have the noble part — the doing." 

“ Ah, my-de’-seh ! ” exclaimed Honore ; “ the noble 
part ! There is the bitterness of the draught I The op' 


HONORS. MAKES SOME CONFESSIONS. 289 

portunity to act is pushed upon me, but the opportu- 
nity to act nobly has passed by.” 

He again drew his chair closer, glanced behind him 
and spoke low : 

“ Because for years I have had a kind of custody of 
all my kinsmen’s property interests, Agricola’s among 
them, it is supposed that he has always kept the planta- 
tion of Aurore Nancanou (or rather of Clotilde — who, 
you know, by our laws is the real heir). That is a mis- 
take. Explain it as you please, call it remorse, pride, 
love — what you like — while I was in France and he was 
managing my mother’s business, unknown to me he 
gave me that plantation. When I succeeded him I 
found it and all its revenues kept distinct — as was but 
proper — from all other accounts, and belonging to me. 
’Twas a fine, extensive place, had a good overseer on 
it and — I kept it. Why ? Because I was a coward. 
I did not want it or its revenues ; but, like my 
father, I would not offend my people. Peace first and 
justice afterwards — that was the principle on which I 
quietly made myself the trustee of a plantation and in- 
come which you would have given back to their owners, 
eh?” 

Frowenfeld was silent. 

** My-de’-seh, recollect that to us the Grandissime 
name is a treasure. And what has preserved it so 
long ? Cherishing the unity of our family ; that has 
done it; that is how my father did it. Just or unjust, 
good or bad, needful or not, done elsewhere or not, I 
do not say ; but it is a Creole trait. See, even now ” 
(the speaker smiled on one side of his mouth) “ in a cer- 
tain section of the territory certain men, Creoles ” (he 
whispered, gravely), “ some Grandissimes among them^ 


290 THE GRANDISSIMES, 

evading the United States revenue laws and even 
beating and killing some of the officials : well ! Do the 
people at large repudiate those men ? My-de’-seh, in 
no wise, seh ! No ; if they were Americains — but a 
Louisianian — is a Louisianian ; touch him not ; when 
you touch him you touch all Louisiana ! So with us 
Grandissimes ; we are legion, but we are one. Now, 
my-de’-seh, the thing you ask me to do is to cast over- 
board that old traditional principle which is the secret 
of our existence.” 

“ / ask you ? ” 

“ Ah, bah ! you know you expect it. Ah ! but you 
do not know the uproar such an action would make. 
And no ‘ noble part ’ in it, my-de'-seh, either. A few 
months ago — when we met by those graves — if I had 
acted then, my action would have been one of pure — 
even violent — .y^i^-sacrifice. Do you remember — on 
the levee, by the Place d’Armes — me asking you to 
send Agricola to me ? I tried then to speak of it. He 
would not let me. Then, my people felt safe in their 
land-titles and public offices ; this restitution would 
have hurt nothing but pride. Now, titles in doubt, 
government appointments uncertain, no ready capital in 
reach for any purpose except that which would have 
to be handed over with the plantation (for to tell you 
the fact, my-de’-seh, no other account on my books 
has prospered), with matters changed in this way, I be- 
come the destroyer of my own flesh and blood ! Yes, 
seh ! and lest I might still find some room to boast, 
another change moves me into a position where it 
suits me, my-de’-seh, to make the restitution so fatal to 
those of my name. When you and I first met, those 
ladies were as much strangers to ryie as to you — as 


HONORE MAKES SOME CONFESSIONS. 2y[ 

far as I knew. Then, if I had done this thing but 

now — now, my-de’-seh, I find myself in love with one 
of them ! ” 

M. Grandissime looked his friend straight in the eye 
with the frowning energy of one who asserts an ugly 
fact. 

Frowenfeld, regarding the speaker with a gaze of re- 
spectful attention, did not falter ; but his fevered blood, 
with an impulse that started him half from his seat, 
surged up into his head and face ; and then — 

M. Grandissime blushed. 

In the few silent seconds that followed, the glances of 
the two friends continued to pass into each other’s eyes, 
while about Honor^’s mouth hovered the smile of one 
who candidly surrenders his innermost secret, and the 
lips of the apothecary set themselves together as though 
he were whispering to himself behind them, “ Steady.” 

Mr. Frowenfeld,” said the Creole, taking a sudden 
breath and waving a hand, I came to ask about youf 
trouble ; but if you think you have any reason to with- 
hold your confidence ” 

“ No, sir; no ! But can I be no help to you in this 
matter ? ” 

The Creole leaned back smilingly in his chair and 
knit his fingers. 

** No, I did not intend to say all this ; I came to 
offer my help to you ; but my mind is full — what do you 
expect ? My-de’-seh, the foam must come first out of 
the bottle. You see” — he leaned forward again, laid 
two fingers in his palm and deepened his tone — I will 
tell you: this tree — ‘our dead father’s mistakes’ — is 
about to drop another rotten apple. I spoke just 
now of the uproar this restitution would make ; why 


292 THE GRANDJSSIMES. 

my-de'-seh, just the mention of the lady’s name at my 
house, when we lately held the fite de grandp^re, has 
given rise to a quarrel which is likely to end in a 
duel.” 

Raoul was telling me,” said the apothecary. 

M. Grandissime made an affirmative gesture. 

“ Mr. Frowenfeld, if you — if any one — could teach 
my people — I mean my family — the value of peace (I 
do not say the duty, my-de’-seh, a merchant talks of 
values) ; if you could teach them the value of peace, I 
would give you, if that was your price” — he ran the 
edge of his left hand knife-wise around the wrist of his 
right — “ that. And if you would teach it to the whole 
community — well — I think I would not give my head ; 
maybe you would.” He laughed. 

“ There is a peace which is bad,” said the contempla* 
tive apothecary. 

“Yes,” said the Creole, promptly, “the very kind 
that I have been keeping all this time — and my father 
before me ! ” 

He spoke with much warmth. 

“ Yes,” he said again, after a pause which was not a 
rest, “ I often see that we Grandissimes are a good 
example of the Creoles at large ; we have one element 
that makes for peace ; that — pardon the self-conscious- 
ness — is myself ; and another element that makes for 
strife — led by my uncle Agricola ; but, my-de’-seh, 
the peace element is that which ought to make the 
strife, and the strife element is that which ought to be 
made to keep the peace ! Mr. Frowenfeld, I propose 
to become the strifemaker ; how, then, can I be a 
peacemaker at the same time ? There is my diffy- 
cultie.” 


HONOI^E AIAFCES SOME CCNFESSIONS. 293 

‘'Mr. Grandissime,” exclaimed Frowenfeld, “if you 
have any design in view founded on the high principles 
which I know to be the foundations of all your feelings, 
and can make use of the aid of a disgraced man, use 
me.” 

“You are very generous,” said the Creole, and both 
were silent. Honore dropped his eyes from Frowen- 
feld’s to the floor, rubbed his knee with his palm, and 
suddenly looked up. 
i “ You are innocent of wrong ? ” 

“Before God.” 

! “ I feel sure of it. Tell me in a few words all about 

it. I ought to be able to extricate you. Let me hear 
I it.” 

' Frowenfeld again told as much as he thought he 
. could, consistently with his pledges to Palmyre, touch- 
1 ing with extreme lightness upon the part taken by 
j Clotilde. 

i “Turn around,” said M. Grandissime at the close; 
I “let me see the back of your head. And it is that 
; that is giving you this fever, eh ? ” 

“ Partly,” replied Frowenfeld ; “ but how shall I vin- 
dicate my innocence ? I think I ought to go back 
openly to this woman’s house and get my hat. I was 
f about to do that when I got your note ; yet it seems a 
! feeble — even if possible — expedient.” 

“My friend,” said Honore, “leave it to me. I see 
your whole case, both what you tell and what you con- 
ceal. I guess it with ease. Knowing Palmyre so well, 
and knowing (what you do not) that all the voudous in 
town think you a sorcerer, I know just what she would 
drop down and beg you for — a ouangan^ ha, ha ! 
You sec? Leave it all to rne — and your hat with Pal^ 


294 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


myre, take a febrifuge and a nap, and await word from 
me.” 

** And may I offer you no help in your difficulty?” 
asked the apothecary, as the two rose and grasped 
hands. 

‘‘ Oh ! ” said the Creole, with a little shrug, yoi/. 
may do anything you can — which will be nothing.” 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 


TESTS OF FRIENDSHIP. 

Frowenfeld turned away from the closing door, 
caught his head between his hands and tried to compre- 
hend the new wildness of the tumult within. Honore 
Grandissime avowedly in love with one of them — which 
one? Doctor Keene visibly in love with one of them — 
which one? And he ! What meant this bounding joy 
that, like one gorgeous moth among innumerable bats, 
flashed to and fro among the wild distresses and dis- 
mays swarming in and out of his distempered imagina- 
tion ? He did not answer the question ; he only knew 
the confusion in his brain was dreadful. Both hands 
could not hold back the throbbing of his temples ; the 
table did not steady the trembling of his hands ; his 
thoughts went hither and thither, heedless of his call. 
Sit down as he might, rise up, pace the room, stand, 
lean his forehead against the wall — nothing could quiet 
the fearful disorder, until at length he recalled Honore’s 
neglected advice and resolutely lay down and sought 
sleep ; and, long before he had hoped to secure it, it 
came. 

In the distant Grandissime mansion. Agricola Fusilier 
was casting about for ways and means to rid himself of 
the heaviest heart that ever had throbbed in his bosom. 
He had risen at sunrise from slumber worse than sleep- 


THE GRANDISSIMES, 


296 

lessness, in which his dreams had anticipated the duel 
of to-morrow with Sylvestre. He was trying to get 
the unwonted quaking out of his hands and the memory 
of the night’s heart-dissolving phantasms from before 
his inner vision. To do this he had resort to a very fa^ 
miliar, we may say time-honored, prescription — rumc 
He did not use it after the voudou fashion ; the voudous 
pour it on the ground — Agricola was an anti-voudou. 
It finally had its effect. By eleven o’clock he seemed, 
outwardly at least, to be at peace with everything in 
Louisiana that he considered Louisianian, properly so- 
called ; as to all else he was ready for war, as in peace 
one should be. While in this mood, and performing at 
a side-board the solemn rite of las onze^ news inci- 
dentally reached him, by the mouth of his busy second, 
Hippolyte, of Frowenfeld’s trouble, and despite Tolyte’s 
protestations against the principal in a pending “ affair ” 
appearing on the street, he ordered the carriage and 
hurried to the apothecary’s. 

When Frowenfeld awoke, the fingers of his clock 
were passing the meridian. His fever was gone, his 
brain was calm, his strength in good measure had re- 
turned. There had been dreams in his sleep, too ; he 
had seen Clotilde standing at the foot of his bed. He 
lay now, for a moment, lost in retrospection. 

There can be no doubt about it,” said he, as he rose 
up, looking back mentally at something in the past. 

The sound of carriage-wheels attracted his attention 
by ceasing before his street door. A moment later the 
voice of Agricola was heard in the shop greeting Raoul. 
As the old man lifted the bead of his staff to tap on the 
inner door, Frowenfeld opened it 


TESTS OF FRIENDSHIP. 


297 


** Fusilier to the rescue ! ” said the great Louisianian, 
with a grasp of the apothecary’s hand and a gaze of 
brooding admiration. 

Joseph gave him a chair, but with magnificent humil- 
ity he insisted on not taking it until “ Professor Frowen- 
feld ” had himself sat down. 

The apothecary was very solemn. It seemed to him 
as if in this little back room his dead good name was 
lying in state, and these visitors were coming in to take 
their last look. From time to time he longed for more 
light, wondering why the gravity of his misadventure 
should seem so great. 

“ H-m-h-y dear Professor!” began the old man. 
Pages of print could not comprise all the meanings of 
his smile and accent ; benevolence, affection, assumed 
knowledge of the facts, disdain of results, remembrance 
of his own youth, charity for pranks, patronage — these 
were but a few. He spoke very slowly and deeply and 
with this smile of a hundred meanings. ‘‘ Why did you 
aot send for me, Joseph? Sir, whenever you have oc- 
casion to make a list of the friends who will stand by 
you, right or wrong — h- write the name of Citizen Agri- 
cola Fusilier at the top I Write it large and repeat it 
at the bottom I You understand me, Joseph ? — and, 
mark me, — right or wrong ! ” 

Not wrong,” said Frowenfeld, ‘‘ at least not in de- 
fence of wrong ; I could not do that ; but, I assure you, 

in this matter I have done ” 

No worse than any one else would have done undet 
the circumstances, my dear boy I — Nay, nay, do not in- 
terrupt me ; I understand you, I understand you. H-do 
you imagine there is anything strange to me in this — at 
my age ? ” 


298 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


“ But I am ” 

“ all right, sir ! that is what you are. And you 

are under the wing of Agricola Fusilier, the old eagle; 
that is where you are. And you are one of my brood ; 
that is who you are. Professor, listen to your old father. 
The — man — makes — the — crime ! The wisdom of man- 
kind never brought forth a maxim of more gigantic 
beauty. If the different grades of race and society did 
not have corresponding moral and civil liberties, vary- 
ing in degree as they vary — h-why ! this community, at 
least, would go to pieces ! See here ! Professor Frow- 
enfeld is charged with misdemeanor. Very well, who 
is he? Foreigner or native ? Foreigner by sentiment 
and intention, or only by accident of birth ? Of our 
mental fibre — our aspirations — our delights — our indig- 
nations ? I answer for you, Joseph, yes ! — yes ! What 
then ? H-why then the decision ! Reached how ? By 
apologetic reasonings ? By instinct, sir ! h-h-that guide 
of the nobly proud ! And what is the decision ? Not 
guilty. Professor Frowenfeld, absolve te ! ” 

It was in vain that the apothecary repeatedly tried to 
interrupt this speech. “Citizen Fusilier, do you know 
me no better?” — “ Citizen Fusilier, if you will but lis- 
ten ! such were the fragments of his efforts to ex- 
plain. The old man was not so confident as he pre- 
tended to be that Frowenfeld was that complete prose- 
lyte which alone satisfies a Creole ; but he saw him in a 
predicament and cast to him this life-buoy, which if a 
man should refuse, he would deserve to drown. 
Frowenfeld tried again to begin. 

“ Mr. Fusilier ” 

“ Cit\zt.w Fusilier ! ” 


i 


I 


“ Citizen, candor demands that I undeceive 


TESTS OF FRIENDSHIP. 299 

“ Candor demands — h-my dear Professor, let me tell 
you exactly what she demands. She demands that in here 
— within this apartment — we understand each other. 
That demand is met” 

“But ” Frowenfeld frowned impatiently. 

“That demand, Joseph, is fully met! I understand 
the whole matter like an eye-witness ! Now there is 
another demand to be met, the demand of friendship ! 
In here, candor ; outside, friendship ; in here, one of 
our brethren has been adventurous and unfortunate ; 
outside ” — the old man smiled a smile of benevolent 
mendacity — “ outside, nothing has happened.” 

Frowenfeld insisted savagely on speaking ; but Agri- 
cola raised his voice, and gray hairs prevailed. 

“ At least, what has happened ? The most ordinary 
thing in the world ; Professor Frowenfeld lost his foot- 
ing on a slippery gunwale, fell, cut his head upon a pro- 
truding spike, and went into the house of Palmyre to 
bathe his wound ; but finding it worse than he had at 
first supposed it, immediately hurried out again and 
came to his store. He left his hat where it had fallen, 
too muddy to be worth recovery. Hippolyte Brahmin- 
Mandarin and others, passing at the time, thought 
he had met with violence in the house of the hair- 
dresser, and drew some natural inferences, but have 
since been better informed ; and the public will please 
understand that Professor Frowenfeld is a white man, a 
gentleman, and a Louisianian, ready to vindicate his 
honor, and that Citizen Agricola Fusilier is his friend ! ” 

The old man looked around with the air of a bull on 
a hill-top. 

Frowenfeld, vexed beyond degree, restrained him- 
self only for the sake of an object in view, and con 


300 


THE GRANDTSSIMES, 


tented himself with repeating for the fourth or fifth 
time, — 

I cannot accept any such deliverance.” 

Professor Frow*enfeld, friendship — society — demands 
it ; our circle must be protected in all its members. 
You have nothing to do with it. You will leave it with 
me, Joseph.” 

“No, no,” said Frowenfeld, ** I thank you, but ” 

Ah ! my dear boy, thank me not ; I cannot help 
these impulses ; I belong to a warm-hearted race. But ” 
— he drew back in his chair sidewise and made great 
pretence of frowning — “you decline the offices of that 
precious possession, a Creole friend ? ” 

“ I only decline to be shielded by a fiction.” 

“ Ah-h ! ” said Agricola, further nettling his victim 
by a gaze of stagy admiration. “ ‘ Sans peur et sans 
reproche ’ — and yet you disappoint me. Is it for naught, 
that I have sallied forth from home, drawing the cur- 
tains of my carriage to shield me from the gazing 
crowd ? It was to rescue my friend — my vicar — my co- 
adjutor — my son, from the laughs and finger-points of 
the vulgar mass. H-I might as well have stayed at home 
— or better, for my peculiar position to-day rather re- 
quires me to keep in ” 

“No, citizen,” said Frowenfeld, laying his hand upon 
Agricola’s arm, “ I trust it is not in vain that you have 
come out. There is a man in trouble whom only you 
can deliver.” 

The old man began to swell with complacency. 

“ H-why, really ” 

“ He, Citizen, is truly of your kind ” 

“ He must be delivered. Professor Frowenfeld ** 

“ He is a native Louisianian, not only by accident 


TESTS OF FRIENDSHIP. 3O1 

of birth but by sentiment and intention,” said Frowen 
feld. 

The old man smiled a benign delight, but the apothe- 
cary now had the upper hand, and would not hear him 
speak. 

“His aspirations,” continued the speaker, “his in- 
dignations — mount with his people’s. His pulse beats 
with yours, sir. He is a part of your circle. He is one 
of your caste.” 

Agricola could not be silent. 

“ Ha-a-a-ah ! Joseph, h-h-you make my blood tingle ! 
Speak to the point ; who ” 

“ I believe him, moreover. Citizen Fusilier, innocent 
of the charge laid ” 

“ H-innocent ? H-of course he is innocent, sir ! We 
will make him inno ” 

“ Ah ! Citizen, he is already under sentence of 
death ! ” 

“ What? A Creole under sentence!” Agricola 
swore a heathen oath, set his knees apart and grasped 
his staff by the middle. “ Sir, we will liberate him if 
we have to overturn the government 1 ” 

Frowenfeld shook his head. 

“You have got to overturn something stronger than 
government.” 

“ And pray what ” 

“A conventionality,” said Frowenfeld, holding the 
old man’s eye. 

“ Ha, ha ! my b-hoy, h-you are right. But we will 
overturn — eh ? ” 

“ I say I fear your engagements will prevent. I hear 
you take part to-morrow morning in ” 

Agricola suddenly stiffened. 


302 


THE GRAHDISSIMES. 


“ Professor Frowenfeld, it strikes me, sir, you are 
taking something of a liberty.’' 

‘‘For which I ask pardon,” exclaimed Frowenfeldt 
“ Then I may not expect ” 

The old man melted again. 

“ But who is this person in mortal peril ? ” 

Frowenfeld hesitated. 

“Citizen Fusilier,” he said, looking first down at the 
floor and then up into the inquirer’s face, “ on my assur- 
ance that he is not only a native Creole, but a Grandis^ 
sime-- — ” 

“ It is not possible ! ” exclaimed Agricola. 

“ a Grandissime of the purest blood, will you 

pledge me your aid to liberate him from his danger, 
‘ right or wrong ? ’ ” 

“ Will I ? H-why, certainly ! Who is he ? ” 

“ Citizen it is Sylves ” 

Agricola sprang up with a thundering oath. 

The apothecary put out a pacifying hand, but it was 
spurned. 

“Let me go ! How dare you, sir? How dare you, 
sir ? ” bellowed Agricola. 

He started toward the door, cursing furiously and 
keeping his eye fixed on Frowenfeld with a look of rage 
not unmixed with terror. 

“ Citizen Fusilier,” said the apothecary, following him 
with one palm uplifted, as if that would ward off his 
abuse, “ don’t go ! I adjure you, don’t go ! Remem- 
ber your pledge. Citizen Fusilier! ” 

Agricola did not pause a moment ; but when he had 
swung the door violently open the way was still ob- 
structed. The painter of “ Louisiana refusing to enter 
the Union ” stood before him, his head elevated loftily, 


TESTS OF FRIENDSHIP. 303 

one foot set forward and his arm extended like a 
tragedian’s. 

‘‘ Stan’ bag-sah ! ” 

Let me pass ! Let me pass, or I will kill you ! ” 

Mr. Innerarity smote his bosom and tossed his hand 
aloft. 

**Kill me-firse an’ pass aftah ! ” 

Citizen Fusilier,” said Frowenfeld, I beg you to 
hear me.” 

Go away ! Go away ! ” 

The old man drew back from the door and stood in 
the corner against the book-shelves as if all the horrors 
of the last night’s dreams had taken bodily shape in the 
person of the apothecary. He trembled and stammered : 

“ Ke — keep off! Keep off! My God ! Raoul, he 
has insulted me ! ” He made a miserable show of draw- 
ing a weapon. No man may insult me and live ! If 
you are a man. Professor Frowenfeld, you will defend 
yourself ! ” 

Frowenfeld lost his temper, but his hasty reply was 
drowned by Raoul’s vehement speech. 

“ ’Tis not de trute ! ” cried Raoul. He try to save 
you from hell-’n’-damnation w’en ’e h-ought to give you 
a good cuss’n ! ” — and in the ecstasy of his anger burst 
into tears. 

Frowenfeld, in an agony of annoyance, waved him 
away and he disappeared, shutting the door. 

Agricola, moved far more from within than from with- 
out, had sunk into a chair under the shelves. His head 
was bowed, a heavy grizzled lock fell down upon his 
dark, frowning brow, one hand clenched the top of his 
taff, the other his knee, and both trembled violently. 
As Frowenfeld, with every demonstration of beseeching 


304 


THE GRANDTSSIMES. 


kindness began to speak, he lifted his eyes and said, 
piteously : 

“ Stop ! Stop ! 

‘‘Citizen Fusilier, it is you who must stop. Stop 
before God Almighty stops you, I beg you. I do not 
presume to rebuke you. I know you want a clear record. 
I know it better to-day than I ever did before. Citizen 
Fusilier, I honor your intentions ” 

Agricola roused a little and looked up with a miserable 
attempt at his habitual patronizing smile. 

“ H-my dear boy, I overlook” — but he met in Frow- 
enfeld’s eyes a spirit so superior to his dissimulation that 
the smile quite broke down and gave way to another of 
deprecatory and apologetic distress. He reached up an 
arm. 

“ I could easily convince you, Professor, of your 
error ” — his eyes quailed and dropped to the floor — 
“but I — your arm, my dear Joseph; age is creeping 
upon me.” He rose to his feet. “ I am feeling really 
indisposed to-day — not at all bright ; my solicitude for 
you, my dear b ” 

He took two or three steps forward, tottered, clung 
to the apothecary, moved another step or two, and 
grasping the edge of the table stumbled into a chair 
which Frowenfeld thrust under him. He folded his 
arms on the edge of the board and rested his forehead on 
them, while Frowenfeld sat down quickly on the oppo- 
site side, drew paper and pen across the table and wrote. 

“ Are you writing something, Professor?” asked the 
old man, without stirring. His staff tumbled to the 
floor. The apothecary’s answer was a low, preoccupied 
one. Two or three times over he wrote and rejected 
what he had written. 


TESTS OF FRIENDSHIP. 


305 


Presently he pushed back his chair, came around the 
table, laid the writing he had made before the bowed 
head, sat down again and waited. 

After a long time the old man looked up, trying in 
vain to conceal his anguish under a smile. 

** I have a sad headache.” 

He cast his eyes over the table and took mechanically 
the pen which Frowenfeld extended toward him. 

What can I do for you. Professor ? Sign something ? 
There is nothing I would not do for Professor Frowen- 
feld. What have you written, eh ? ” 

He felt helplessly for his spectacles. 

Frowenfeld read : 

Mr. Sylvestre Grandissime : I spoke in haste." 

He felt himself tremble as he read. Agricola fumbled 
with the pen, lifted his eyes with one more effort at the 
old look, said : 

My dear boy, I do this purely to please you,” and 
to Frowenfeld’s delight and astonishment wrote : 

“ Your affectionate uncle ^ Agricola Fusilier" 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 


LOUISIANA STATES HER WANTS. 

’SlEUR FrowenfelV’ said Raoul as that person 
turned in the front door of the shop after watching 
Agricola’s carriage roll away — he had intended to un- 
burden his mind to the apothecary with all his natural 
impetuosity ; but Frowenfeld’s gravity as he turned, 
with the paper in his hand, induced a different manner. 
Raoul had learned, despite all the impulses of his nature, 
to look upon Frowenfeld with a sort of enthusiastic awe. 
He dropped his voice and said — asking like a child a 
question he was perfectly able to answer — 

“ What de matta wid Agricole ? ” 

Frowenfeld, for the moment well-nigh oblivious of his 
own trouble, turned upon his assistant a look in which 
elation was oddly blended with solemnity, and replied 
as he walked by : 

Rush of truth to the heart.” 

Raoul followed a step. 

“ ’Sieur Frowenfel’ ” 

The apothecary turned once more. Raoul’s face bore 
an expression of earnest practicability that invited con- 
fidence. 

“ ’Sieur Frowenfel’, Agricola writ’n’ to Sylvestre to 
stop dat dool ? ” 

“ Yes.” 


LOUISIANA STATES HER WANTS. 3 ©; 

You goin’ take dat lett’ to Sylvestre ? ” 

Yes/’ 

“ ’Sieur Frowenfel’, dat de wrong g-way. You got to 
'ake it to Tolyte Brahmin-Mandarin, an’ ’e got to take 
it to Valentine Grandissime, an’ 'e got to take it to Syl- 
vestre. You see, you got to know de manner to make? 
Once ’pon a time I had a diffycultie wid ” 

‘‘I see,” said Frowenfeld ; ‘‘where may I find Hip* 
polyte Brahmin-Mandarin at this time of day ? ” 

Raoul shrugged. 

“ If the pre-parish- ions are not complitted, you will not 
find ’im ; but if they har complitted — you know ’im ? ” 

“ By sight.” 

“ Well, you may fine him at Maspero’s, or helse in de 
front of de Veau-qui-tete, or helse at the Cafe Louis 
Quatorze — mos’ likely in front of de Veau-qui-tete. 
You know, dat diffycultie I had, dat arise itseff from de 
discush’n of one of de mil-littery mov’ments of ca-valry ; 
you know, I ” 

“Yes,” said the apothecary; “here, Raoul, is some 
money ; please go and buy me a good, plain hat.” 

“ All right.” Raoul darted behind the counter and got 
his hat out of a drawer. “ W’ere at you buy your hats ? ” 

“ Anywhere.” 

“ I will go at my hatter.” 

As the apothecary moved about his shop awaiting 
Raoul’s return, his own disaster became once more the 
subject of his anxiety. He noticed that almost every 
person who passed looked in. “ This is the place,” — 
“ That is the man,” — how plainly the glances of passers 
sometimes speak ! The people seemed, moreover, a 
little nervous. Could even so little a city be stirred 


3o8 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


about such a petty, private trouble as this of his ? No; 
the city was having tribulations of its own. 

New Orleans was in that state of suppressed excite* 
ment which, in later days, a frequent need of reassuring 
the outer world has caused to be described by the 
phrase never more peaceable.” Raoul perceived it 
before he had left the shop twenty paces behind. By 
the time he reached the first corner he was in the swirl 
of the popular current. He enjoyed it like a strong 
swimmer. He even drank of it. It was better than 
wine and music mingled. 

“ Twelve weeks next Thursday, and no sign of re- 
cession ! ” said one of two rapid walkers just in front of 
him. Their talk was in the French of the province. 

“ Oh, re-cession ! ” exclaimed the other angrily. “ The 
cession is a reality. That, at least, we have got to swal* 
low. Incredulity is dead.” 

The first speaker’s feelings could find expression only 
in profanity. 

The cession — we wash our hands of it ! ” He turned 
partly around upon his companion, as they hurried 
along, and gave his hands a vehement dry washing. 
“ If Incredulity is dead. Non participation reigns in its 
stead, and Discontent is prime minister!” He brand- 
ished his fist as they turned a corner. 

“If we must change, let us be subjects of the First 
Consul ! ” said one of another pair whom Raoul met on 
a crossing. 

There was a gathering of boys and vagabonds at the 
door of a gun-shop. A man inside was buying a gun 
That was all. 

A group came out of a “ coffee-house.” The lead« 
turned about upon the rest ; 


LOUISIANA STATES HER WANTS, 


309 


** Ah^ hah / cette Amayrican libetty ! ” 

** See ! see ! it is this way 1 ” said another of the num* 
ber, taking two others by their elbows, to secure an 
audience, we shall do nothing ourselves ; we are just 
watching that vile Congress. It is going to tear the 
country all to bits ! ” 

Ah, my friend, you haven’t got the inside news,” 
said still another — Raoul lingered to hear him — “ Lou- 
isiana is going to state her wants ! We have the lib- 
erty of free speech and are going to use it ! ” 

His information was correct ; Louisiana, no longer 
incredulous of her Americanization, had laid hold of her 
new liberties and was beginning to run with them, like 
a boy dragging his kite over the clods. She was about 
to state her wants, he said. 

And her don’t-wants,” volunteered one whose hand 
Raoul shook heartily. “We warn the world. If Con- 
gress doesn’t take heed, we will not be responsible for 
the consequences ! ” 

Raoul’s hatter was full of the subject. As Mr. Inne- 
rarity entered, he was saying good-day to a customer in 
his native tongue, English, and so continued : 

“ Yes, under Spain we had a solid, quiet government 
— Ah ! Mr. Innerarity, overjoyed to see you ! We 
were speaking of these political troubles. I wish we 
might see the last of them. It’s a terrible bad mess ; 
corruption to-day — I tell you what — it will be disruption 
to morrow. Well, it is no work of ours ; we shall mere- 
ly stand off and see it.” 

“ Mi-frien’,” said Raoul, with mingled pity and superi- 
ority, “ you haven’t got doze inside nooz ; Louisiana is 
goin’ to state w’at she want.” 

On his way back toward the shop Mr. Innerarity 


310 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


easily learned Louisiana’s wants and don’t-wants by 
heart. She wanted a Creole governor ; she did not , 
want Casa Calvo invited to leave the country ; she 
wanted the provisions of the Treaty of Cession hurried 
up ; “ as soon as possible,” that instrument said ; she 
had waited long enough ; she did not want “ dat trile 
bi-ju’y ” — execrable trash ! she wanted an unwatched 
import trade! she did not want a single additional 
Am^ricain appointed to office ; she wanted the slave 
trade. 

Just in sight of the bare-headed and anxious Frowen- 
feld, Raoul let himself be stopped by a friend. 

The remark was exchanged that the times were ex- 
citing. 

And yet,” said the friend, the city was never more 
peaceable. It is exasperating to see that coward gover- 
nor looking so diligently after his police and hurrying on 
the organization of the Americain volunteer militia ! ” 
He pointed savagely here and there. “ M. Innerarity, 

I am lost in admiration at the all but craven patience 
with which our people endure their wrongs ! Do my 
pistols show too much through my coat ? Well, good- 
day ; I must go home and clean my gun ; my dear 
friend, one don’t know how soon he may have to en- 
counter the Recorder and Register of Land-titles.” 

Raoui finished his errand. 

“ ’Sienr Frowenfel’, excuse me — I take dat lett’ to 
Polyte for you if you want.” There are times when 
mere shop-keeping — any peaceful routine- — is torture. 

But the apothecary felt so himself ; he declined his 
assistant’s offer and went out toward the Veau-qui-tete. 


CHAPTER XL. 


FROWENFELD FINDS SYLVESTRE. 

The Veau-qui-tete restaurant occupied the whole 
ground floor of a small, low, two-story, tile-roofed, 
brick-and-stucco building which still stands on the cor- 
ner of Chartres and St. Peter streets, in company with 
the well preserved old Cabildo and the young Cathedral, 
reminding one of the shabby and swarthy Creoles whom 
we sometimes see helping better kept kinsmen to mur- 
der time on the banquettes ot the old French Quarter. 
It was a favorite rendezvous of the higher classes, con- 
venient to the court-rooms and municipal bureaus. 
There you found the choicest legal and political gossips, 
with the best the market afforded of meat and drink. 

Frowenfeld found a considerable number of persons 
there. He had to move about among them to some ex- 
tent, to make sure he was not overlooking the object of 
his search. 

As he entered the door, a man sitting near it stopped 
talking, gazed rudely as he passed, and then leaned 
across the table and smiled and murmured to his com- 
panion. The subject of his jest felt their four eyes on 
his back. 

There was a loud buzz of conversation throughout the 
room, but wherever he went a wake of momentary 
silence followed him, and once or twice he saw elbows 


312 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


nudged. He perceived that there was something in the 
state of mind of these good citizens that made the pres- 
ent sight of him particularly discordant. 

Four men, leaning or standing at a small bar, were 
talking excitedly in the Creole patois. They made fre- 
quent anxious, yet amusedly defiant, mention of a cer- 
tain Pointe Canadienne. It was a portion of the Missis- 
sippi River “ coast ” not far above New Orleans, where 
the merchants of the city met the smugglers who came 
up from the Gulf by way of Barrataria bay and the 
bayou. These four men did not call it by the proper 
title just given ; there were commercial gentlemen in the 
Creole city, Englishmen, Scotchmen, Yankees, as well 
as French and Spanish Creoles, who in public indig- 
nantly denied, and in private tittered over, their com- 
plicity with the pirates of Grand Isle, and who knew 
their trading rendezvous by the sly nickname of “ Little 
Manchac.” As Frowenfeld passed these four men they, 
too, ceased speaking and looked after him, three with 
offensive smiles and one with a stare of contempt. 

Farther on, some Creoles were talking rapidly to an 
Americain, in English. 

And why?” one was demanding ; ‘‘ because money 
is scarce. Under other governments we had any quan- 
tity !” 

“ Yes,” said the venturesome Americain in retort, 
“ such as it was ; assignats^ liheranzas, tons — Claiborne 
will give us better money than that when he starts his 
bank.” 

Hah ! his bank, yes ! John Law once had a bank, 
too ; ask my old father. What do we want with a bank ? 
Down with banks ! ” The speaker ceased ; he had not 
finished, but he saw the apothecary. Frowenfeld heard 


FROWENFELD FINDS SYLVESTRE. 313 

a muttered curse, an inarticulate murmur, and then a 
loud burst of laughter. 

A tall, slender young Creole whom he knew, and who 
had always been greatly pleased to exchange salutations, 
brushed against him without turning his eyes. 

“You know,” he was saying to a companion, “ every* 
body in Louisiana is to be a citizen, except the negroes 
and mules ; that is the kind of liberty they give us — all 
eat out of one trough.” 

“What we want,” said a dark, ill-looking, but finely- 
dressed man, setting his claret down, “ and what we 
have got to have, is ” — he was speaking in French, but 
gave the want in English — “ Representesh’n wizout 

Taxa ” There his eye fell upon Frowenfeld and 

followed him with a scowl. 

“ Mah frang,” he said to his table companion, “ wass 
you sink of a mane w’at hask-a one nee-grow to ’ave-a 
one shair wiz ’im, eh ? — in ze sem room ? ” 

The apothecary found that his fame was far wider and 
more general than he had supposed. He turned to go 
out, bowing as he did so, to an Americain merchant with 
whom he had some acquaintance. 

“Sir?” asked the merchant, with severe politeness, 

“ wish to see me ? I thought you As I was say- 

ing, gentlemen, what, after all, does it sum up ? ” 

A Creole interrupted him with an answer : 

“ Leetegash’n, Spoleeash’n, Pahtitsh’n, Disintegrha- 
sh’n ! ” 

The voice was like Honor^’s. Frowenfeld looked ; it 
was Agamemnon Grandissime. 

“ I must go to Maspero’s,” thought the apothecary, 
and he started up the rue Chartres. As he turned into 
the rue St. Louis, he suddenly found himself one of a 
*4 


314 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


crowd standing before a newly-posted placard, and at a 
glance saw it to be one of the inflammatory publications 
which were a feature of the times, appearing both daily 
and nightly on walls and fences. 

“ One Amerry-can pull’ it down, an’ Camille Brahmif 
’e pas’e it back,” said a boy at Frowenfeld’s side. 

Exchange Alley was once Passage de la Bourse^ and 
led down (as it now does to the State House — late St. 
Louis Hotel) to an establishment which seems to have 
served for a long term of years as a sort of merchants’ 
and auctioneers’ coffee-house, with a minimum of china 
and a maximum of glass : Maspero’s — certainly Maspe- 
ro’s as far back as i8io, and, we believe, Maspero’s the 
day the apothecary entered it, March 9, 1804. It was 
a livelier spot than the Veau-qui-tete ; it was to that 
what commerce is to litigation, what standing and quaff- 
ing is to sitting and sipping. Whenever the public mind 
approached that sad state of public sentiment in which 
sanctity signs politicians’ memorials and chivalry breaks 
into the gun-shops, a good place to feel the thump of the 
machinery was in Maspero’s. 

The first man Frowenfeld saw as he entered was M. 
Valentine Grandissime. There was a double semi-circle 
of gazers and listeners in front of him ; he was talking, 
with much show of unconcern, in Creole French. 

Policy ? I care little about policy.” He waved his 
hand. “ I know my rights — and Louisiana’s. We have 
a right to our opinions. We have ” — with a quiet smile 
and an upward turn of his extended palm — “ a right to 
protect them from the attack of interlopers, even if we 
have to use gunpowder. I do not propose to abridge 
the liberties of even this army of fortune-hunters. Le\ 
them think.” He half laughed. ** Who cares whethei 


frowenfeld finds svlvestre. 315 

they share our opinions or not ? Let them have theif 
own. I had rather they would. But let them hold 
their tongues. Let them remember they are Yankees. 
Let them remember they are unbidden guests.” Al! 
this without the least warmth. 

But the answer came aglow with passion, from one of 
the semicircle, whom two or three seemed disposed to 
hold in check. It also was in French, but the apothecary 
was astonished to hear his own name uttered. 

“ But this fellow Frowenfeld ” — the speaker did not 
see Joseph — “ has never held his tongue. He has given 
us good reason half a dozen times, with his too free 
speech and his high moral whine, to hang him with the 
lamp-post rope ! And now, when we have borne and 
borne and borne and borne with him, and he shows up, 
all at once, in all his rottenness, you say let him alone ! 
One would think you were defending Honore Grandis- 
sime ! ” The back of one of the speaker’s hands fluttered 
in the palm of the other. 

Valentine smiled. 

“ Honore Grandissime ? Boy, you do not know what 
you are talking about. Not Honore, ha, ha! A man 
who, upon his own avowal, is guilty of affiliating with 
the Yankees. A man whom we have good reason to 
suspect of meditating his family’s dishonor and embar- 
rassment I ” Somebody saw the apothecary and laid a 
cautionary touch on Valentine’s arm, but he brushed it 
off. As for Professor Frowenfeld, he must defend 
himself.” 

“ Ha-a-a-ah I ” — a general cry of derision from the lis- 
teners. 

“Defend himself?” exclaimed their spokesman; 
“ shall I tell you again what he is ? ” In his vehemence 


3i6 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


the speaker wagged his chin and held his clenched fisti 
stiffly toward the floor. “ He is — he is — he is 

He paused, breathing like a fighting dog. Frowen- 
feld, large, white, and immovable, stood close before 
him. 

** Dey ’ad no bizniz led ’im come oud to-day,” said a 
bystander, edging toward a pillar. 

The Creole, a small young man not unknown to us, 
glared upon the apothecary ; but Frowenfeld was far 
above his blushing mood, and was not disconcerted. 
This exasperated the Creole beyond bound ; he made a 
sudden, angry change of attitude, and demanded : 

Do you interrup’ two gen’lemen in dey conve’sition, 
you Yankee clown? Do you igno’ dad you ’ave insult 
me, off-scow’ing ? ” 

Frowenfeld’s first response was a stern gaze. When 
he spoke, he said : 

Sir, I am not aware that I have ever offered you the 
slightest injury or affront ; if you wish to finish your con- 
versation with this gentleman, I will wait till you are 
through.” 

The Creole bowed, as a knight who takes up the gage. 
He turned to Valentine. 

“Valentine, I was sayin’ to you dad diz pusson is a 
cowa’d and a sneak ; I repead thad ! I repead id ! I 
spurn you ! Go fom yeh ! ” 

The apothecary stood like a cliff. 

It was too much for Creole forbearance. His adver- 
sary, with a long snarl of oaths, sprang forward and with 
a great sweep of his arm slapped the apothecary on the 
cheek. And then — 

What a silence ! 

Frowenfeld had advanced one step; his opponent 


FROWENFELD FINDS SVLVESTRE. 31 / 

stood half turned away, but with his face toward the face 
he had just struck and his eyes glaring up into the eyes 
of the apothecary. The semicircle was dissolved, and 
each man stood in neutral isolation, motionless and 
silent. For one instant objects lost all natural propor- 
tion, and to the expectant on-lookers the largest thing in 
the room was the big, upraised, white fist of Frowenfeld. 
But in the next— how was this ? Could it be that that 
fist had not descended ? 

The imperturbable Valentine, with one preventing arm 
laid across the breast of the expected victim and an open 
hand held restrainingly up for truce, stood between the 
two men and said : 

“ Professor Frowenfeld — one moment — ” 

Frowenfeld’s face was ashen. 

“Don’t speak, sir!” he exclaimed. “ If I attempt 
to parley I shall break every bone in his body. Don’t 
speak I I can guess your explanation — he is drunk. 
But take him away.” 

Valentine, as sensible as cool, assisted by the kinsman 
who had laid a hand on his arm, shuffled his enraged 
companion out. Frowenfeld’s still swelling anger was 
so near getting the better of him that he unconsciously 
followed a quick step or two ; but as Valentine looked 
back and waved him to stop, he again stood still. 

** Proffesseur — you know, — ” said a stranger, “ daz 
Sylvestre Grandissime.” 

Frowenfeld rather spoke to himself than answered ; 

“If I had not known that, I should have ” He 

checked himself and left the place. 

While the apothecary was gathering these experiences, 
the free spirit of Raoul Innerarity was chafing in the 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


shop like an eagle in a hen-coop. One moment aftef 
another brought him straggling evidences, now of one 
sort, now of another, of the ‘‘never more peaceable" 
state of affairs without. If only some pretext could be 
conjured up, plausible or flimsy, no matter ; if only some 
man would pass with a gun on his shoulder, were it only 
a blow-gun ; or if his employer were any one but his be- 
loved Frowenfeld, he would clap up the shutters as 
quickly as he had already done once to-day, and be off to 
the wars. He was just trying to hear imaginary pistol- 
shots down toward the Place d’Armes, when the apothe- 
cary returned. 

“ D’ you fin’ him ? " 

“ I found Sylvestre." 

“ ’E took de lett’ ? " 

“I did not offer it." Frowenfeld, in a few compact 
sentences, told his adventure. 

Raoul was ablaze with indignation. 

“ ’Sieur Frowenfel’, gimmy dat lett’ ! " He extended 
his pretty hand. 

Frowenfeld pondered. 

“ Gimmy ’er I " persisted the artist ; “ befo’ I lose de 
sight from dat lett’ she goin’ to be hanswer by Sylvestre 
Grandissime, an’ ’e goin’ to wrat you one appo-logie ! 
Oh ! I goin’ mek ’im crah fo’ shem ! ’’ 

“ If I could know you would do only as I ’’ 

“ I do it ! ’’ cried Raoul, and sprang for his hat ; and 
in the end Frowenfeld let him have his way. 

“I had intended seeing him — — ’’ the apothecary 

said. 

“ Nevvamine to see ; I goin’ tell him ! " cried Raoul, 
as he crowded his hat fiercely down over his curls and 
plunged out 


CHAPTER XLI. 


TO COME TO THE POINT. 

It was equally a part of Honore Grandissime’s na- 
ture and of his art as a merchant to wear a look of se- 
rene leisure. With this look on his face he re-entered 
his counting-room after his morning visit to Frowen- 
feld’s shop. He paused a moment outside the rail, gave 
the weak-eyed gentleman who presided there a quiet 
glance equivalent to a beckon, and, as that person came 
near, communicated two or three items of intelligence 
or instruction concerning office details, by which that 
invaluable diviner of business meanings understood 
that he wished to be let alone for an hour. Then M. 
Grandissime passed on into his private office, and, shut- 
ting the door behind him, walked briskly to his desk 
and sat down. 

He dropped his elbows upon a broad paper contain- 
ing some recently written, unfinished memoranda that 
included figures in column, cast his eyes quite around 
the apartment, and then covered his face with his palms — - 
a gesture common enough for a tired man of business 
in a moment of seclusion ; but just as the face disap- 
peared in the hands, the look of serene leisure gave 
place to one of great mental distress. The paper under 
his elbows, to the consideration of which he seemed 
about to return, was in the handwriting of his manager 


320 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


with additions by his own pen. Earlier in the day he 
had come to a pause in the making of these additions, 
and, after one or two vain efforts to proceed, had laid 
down his pen, taken his hat, and gone to see the un- 
lucky apothecary. Now he took up the broken thread. 
To come to a decision ; that was the task which forced 
from him his look of distress. He drew his face slowly 
through his palms, set his lips, cast up his eyes, knit his 
knuckles, and then opened and struck his palms together, 
as if to say : “ Now, come ; let me make up my mind.’* 

There may be men who take every moral height at a 
dash ; but to the most of us there must come moments 
when our wills can but just rise and walk in their sleep. 
Those who in such moments wait for clear views, find, 
when the issue is past, that they were only yielding to 
the devil’s chloroform. 

Honors Grandissime bent his eyes upon the paper. 
But he saw neither its figures nor its words. The inter- 
rogation, “ Surrender Fausse Riviere ? ” appeared to hang 
between his eyes and the paper, and when his resolution 
tried to answer “Yes,” he saw red flags ; he heard the 
auctioneer’s drum ; he saw his kinsmen handing house- 
keys to strangers ; he saw the old servants of the great 
family standing in the market-place ; he saw kinswomen 
pawning their plate ; he saw his clerks (Brahmins, Man- 
darins, Grandissimes) standing idle and shabby in the 
arcade of the Cabildo and on the banquette of Mas- 
pero’s and the Veau qui-tete ; he saw red-eyed young 
men in the Exchange denouncing a man who, they said, 
had, ostensibly for conscience’s sake, but really for love, 
forced upon the woman he had hoped to marry a for- 
tune filched from his own kindred. He saw the junto 
of doctors in Frowenfeld’s door charitably deciding him 


TO COME TO THE POINT, 


321 


insane ; he saw the more vengeful of his family seeking 
him with half-concealed weapons ; he saw himself shot 
at in the rue Royale, in the rue Toulouse, and in the 
Place d’Armes ; and, worst of all, missed. 

But he wiped his forehead, and the writing on the 
paper became, in a measure, visible. He read : 

Total mortgages on the lands of all the Grandissimes $ — 

Total present value of same, titles at buyers’ risk — 

Cash, goods, and account — 

Fausse Riviere Plantation account — 


There were other items, but he took up the edge of 
the paper mechanically, pushed it slowly away from 
him, leaned back in his chair and again laid his hands 
upon his face. 

Suppose I retain Fausse Riviere,” he said to him- 
self, as if he had not said it many times before. 

Then he saw memoranda that were not on any paper 
before him — such a mortgage to be met on such a date ; 
so much from Fausse Riviere Plantation account re- 
tained to protect that mortgage from foreclosure ; such 
another to be met on such a date — so much more of 
same account to protect it. He saw Aurora and Clo- 
tilde Nancanou, with anguished faces, offering woman’s 
pleadings to deaf constables. He saw the remainder of 
Aurora’s plantation account thrown to the lawyers to 
keep the question of the Grandissime titles languishing 
in the courts. He saw the meanwhile-rallied fortunes 
of his clan coming to the rescue, himself and kindred 
growing independent of questionable titles, and even 
Fausse Riviere Plantation account restored, but Aurora 
and Clotilde nowhere to be found. And then he saw 
the grave, pale face of Joseph Frowenfeld. 

14^ ^ 


322 


THE GRANDISSIMES, 


He threw himself forward, drew the paper nervously 
toward him, and stared at the figures. He began at the 
first item and went over the whole paper, line by line, 
testing every extension, proving every addition, noting 
if possibly any transposition of figures had been made 
and overlooked, if something was added that should have 
been subtracted, or subtracted that should have been 
added. It was like a prisoner trying the bars of his 
cell. 

Was there no way to make things happen differently ? 
Had he not overlooked some expedient ? Was not some 
financial manoeuvre possible which might compass both 
desired ends ? He left his chair and walked up and 
down, as Joseph at that very moment was doing in the 
room where he had left him, came back, looked at the 
paper, and again walked up and down. He murmured 
now and then to himself : “ 5^^-denial — that is not the 
hard work. Penniless myself — that is play,” and so on. 
He turned by and by and stood looking up at that 
picture of the man in the cuirass which Aurora had once 
noticed. He looked at it, but he did not see it. He wa^ 
thinking — Her rent is due to-morrow. She will never 
believe I am not her landlord. She will never go to 
my half brother.” He turned once more and mentally 
beat his breast as he muttered: Why do I not de- 
cide ? ” 

Somebody touched the door-knob. Honors stepped 
forward and opened it. It was a mortgager. 

Ah! entrez^ Monsieur 

He retained the visitor s hand, leading him in and 
talking pleasantly in French until both had found chairs. 
The conversation continued in that tongue through such 
pointless commercial gossip as this ; 


TO COME TO THE POINT 323 

** So the brig Equinox is aground at the head of the 
Passes,” said M. Grandissime. 

“ I have just heard she is off again.” 

‘‘Aha?” 

“Yes; the Fort Plaquemine canoe is just up from 
below. I understand John McDonough has bought the 
entire cargo of the schooner Freedom^ 

“ No, not all ; Blanque et Fils bought some twenty 
boys and women out of the lot. Where is she ly- 
ing?” 

“ Right at the head of the Basin.” 

And much more like this ; but by and by the mort- 
gager came to the point with the casual remark : 

“ The excitement concerning land-titles seems to in- 
crease rather than subside.” 

“ They must have something to be excited about, I 
suppose,” said M. Grandissime, crossing his legs and 
smiling. It was tradesman’s talk. 

“Yes,” replied the other; “there seems to be an 
idea current to-day that all holders under Spanish titles 
are to be immediately dispossessed, without ever process 
of court. I believe a very slight indiscretion on the part 
of the Governor-General would precipitate a riot.” 

“He will not commit any,” said M. Grandissime with 
a quiet gravity, changing his manner to that of one who 
draws upon a reserve of private information. “ There 
will be no outbreak.” 

“ I suppose not. We do not know, really, that the 
American Congress will throw any question upon titles ; 
but still ” 

“ What are some of the shrewdest Americans among 
us doing ? ” asked M. Grandissime. 

“Yes,” replied the mortgageor, “it is true they arc 


324 


THE GRANDISSIMES, 


buying these very titles; but they may be making a 
mistake ? ” 

Unfortunately for the speaker, he allowed his face an 
expression of argumentative shrewdness as he completed 
this sentence, and M. Grandissime, the merchant, 
caught an instantaneous full view of his motive ; he 
wanted to buy. He was a man whose known speculative 
policy was to ‘'go in ” in moments of panic. 

M. Grandissime was again face to face with the ques- 
tion of the morning. To commence selling must be to 
go on selling. This, as a plan, included restitution to 
Aurora ; but it meant also dissolution to the Grandis- 
simes, for should their sold titles be pronounced bad, 
then the titles of other lands would be bad ; many an 
asset among M. Grandissime’s memoranda would shrink 
into nothing, and the meagre proceeds of the Grandis- 
sime estates, left to meet the strain without the aid of 
Aurora’s accumulated fortune, would founder in a sea 
of liabilities ; while should these titles, after being parted 
with, turn out good, his incensed kindred, shutting their 
eyes to his memoranda and despising his exhibits, would 
see in him only the family traitor, and he would go about 
the streets of his town the subject of their implacable de- 
nunciation, the community’s obloquy, and Aurora’s cold 
evasion. So much, should he sell. On the other hand, 
to decline to sell was to enter upon that disingenuous 
scheme of delays which would enable him to avail him- 
self and his people of that favorable wind and tide of 
fortune which the Cession !iad brought. Thus the 
estates would be lost, if lost at all, only when the family 
could afford to lose them, and Monore Grandissime 
would continue to be Honore the Magnificent, the ad- 
miration of the city and the idol of his clan. Buf 


TO COME TO THE POINT. 


32s 


Aurora — and Clotilde — would have to eat the crust of 
poverty, while their fortunes, even in his hands, must 
bear all the jeopardy of the scheme. That was all. 
Retain Fausse Riviere and its wealth, and save the 
Grandissimes ; surrender Fausse Riviere, let the Gran- 
dissime estates go, and save the Nancanous. That was 
the whole dilemma. 

Let me see,” said M. Grandissime. **You have 
a mortgage on one of our Golden Coast plantations. 
Well, to be frank with you, I was thinking of that when 
you came in. You know I am partial to prompt trans- 
actions — I thought of offering you either to take up that 
mortgage or to sell you the plantation, as you may 
prefer. I have ventured to guess that it would suit you 
to owm it.” 

And the speaker felt within him a secret exultation in 
the idea that he had succeeded in throwing the issue off 
upon a Providence that could control this mortgageor’s 
choice. 

I would prefer to leave that choice with you,” said 
the coy would-be purchaser ; and then the two went co- 
quetting again for another moment. 

“ I understand that Nicholas Girod is proposing to 
erect a four-story brick building on the corner of Royale 
and St. Pierre. Do you think it practicable ? Do you 
think our soil will support such a structure ? ” 

‘‘ Pitot thinks it will. Bor6 says it is perfectly feasi- 
ble.” 

So they dallied. 

“Well,” said the mortgageor, presently rising, “you 
will make up your mind and let me know, will 
you ? ” 

The chance repetition of tho 5 e words “ make up youf 


326 


THE GKANDISSIMES. 


mind ” touched Honors Grandissime like a hot iroa 
He rose with the visitor. 

‘‘Well, sir, what would you give us for our title in 
case we should decide to part with it ? ” 

The two men moved slowly, side by side, toward the 
door, and in the half-open door-way, after a little further 
trifling, the title was sold. 

“Well, good-day,” said M. Grandissime. “ M. de 
Brahmin will arrange the papers for us to-morrow.” 

He turned back toward his private desk. 

“ And now,” thought he, “I am acting without re- 
solving. No merit ; no strength of will ; no clearness 
of purpose ; no emphatic decision ; nothing but a yield- 
ing to temptation.” 

And M. Grandissime spoke true; but it is only whole 
men who so yield — yielding to the temptation to do 
right. 

He passed into the counting-room, to M. De Brahmin, 
and standing there talked in au inaudible tone, leaning 
over the upturned spectacles of his manager, for nearly 
an hour. Then, saying he would go to dinner, he went 
out. He did not dine at home nor at the Veau-^qui-tete, 
nor at any of the clubs ; so much iii known ; he merely 
disappeared for two or three houis and was not seen 
again until late in the afternoon, when two or three Brah- 
mins and Grandissimes, wandering about in search of 
him, met him on the levee near the head of the ruQ 
Bienville, and with an exclamation of wonder and a 
look of surprise at his dusty shoes, demanded to know 
where he had hid himself while they had been ransacking 
the town in search of him. 

“ We want you to tell us what you will do about ouf 

Wles/’ 


TO COME TO THE POINT. 327 

He smiled pleasantly, the picture of serenity, and 
replied : 

‘‘ I have not fully made up my mind yet ; as soon as 
I do so I will let you know.” 

There was a word or two more exchanged, and then, 
after a moment of silence, with a gentle “Eh, bien,” 
and a gesture to which they were accustomed, he 
stepped away backward, they resumed their hurried walk 
and talk, and he turned into the rue Bienville. 


I 


CHAPTER XLII. 

AN INHERITANCE OF WRONG. 


I TELL you,” Doctor Keene used to say, that old 
woman’s a thinker.” His allusion was to Clemence, 
the marchande des calas. Her mental activity was 
evinced not more in the cunning aptness of her songs 
than in the droll wisdom of her sayings. Not the 
melody only, but the often audacious, epigrammatic 
philosophy of her tongue as well, sold her calas and 
ginger cakes. 

But in one direction her wisdom proved scant. She 
presumed too much on her insignificance. She was a 
study,” the gossiping circle at Frowenfeld’s used to 
say ; and any observant hearer of her odd aphorisms 
could see that she herself had made a life-study of her- 
self and her conditions ; but she little thought that 
others — some with wits and some with none — young 
hair-brained Grandissimes, Mandarins and the like — 
were silently, and for her most unluckily, charging their 
memories with her knowing speeches ; and that of every 
one of those speeches she would ultimately have to 
give account. 

Doctor Keene, in the old days of his health, used to en- 
joy an occasional skirmish with her. Once, in the course 
of chaffering over the price of calaSy he enounced an 
old current conviction which is not without holders even 


AN' INHERITANCE OF WRONG. 


329 


to this day ; for we may still hear it said by those who 
will not be decoyed down from the mountain fastnesses 
of the old Southern doctrines, that their slaves were 
“the happiest people under the sun/’ Clemence had 
made bold to deny this with argumentative indignation, 
and was courteously informed in retort that she had pro- 
mulgated a falsehood of magnitude. 

“ W’y, Mawse Chawlie,” she replied, “ does you 
s’pose one po’ nigga kin tell a big lie ? No, sah ! But 
w’en de whole people tell w’at ain’ so — if dey know it, 
aw if dey don’ know it — den dat is a big lie ! ” And 
she laughed to contortion. 

“What is that you say? ” he demanded, with mock 
ferocity. “You charge white people with lying? ” 

“ Oh, sakes, Mawse Chawlie, no ! De people don’t 
mek up dat ah ; de debble pass it on ’em. Don’ you 
know de debble ah de grett cyount’feiteh ? Ev’y piece 
o’ money he mek he tek an’ put some debblemen’ on 
de under side, an’ one o’ his pootiess lies on top ; an’ ’e 
gilt dat lie, and ’e rub dat lie on ’is elbow, an’ ’e shine 
dat lie, an’ ’e put ’is bess licks on dat lie ; entel ev’y- 
body say : ‘ Oh, how pooty ! ’ An’ dey tek it fo’ good 
money, yass — and pass it ! Dey b’lieb it ! ” 

“ Oh,” said some one at Doctor Keene’s side, disposed 
to quiz, “ you niggers don’t know when you are happy.” 

“ Dass so, Mawse — c'est vraiyOui!'' she answered 
quickly : “ we donno no mo’n white folks ! ” ' 

The laugh was against him. 

“Mawse Chawlie,” she said again, “ w’a’s dis I yeh 
’bout dat Eu’ope country ? ’s dat true de niggas is all 
free in Eu’ope ? ” 

Doctor Keene replied that something like that was 

true. 


330 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


“ Well, now, Mawse Chawlie, I gwan t’ ass you a rid- 
dle. If dat is sOy den fo’ w’y I yeh folks bragg’n ’bout 
de ‘ stayt o’ s’iety in Eu’ope ’ ? ” 

The mincing drollery with which she used this fine 
phrase brought another peal of laughter. Nobody tried 
to guess. 

‘‘I gwan tell you,” said the marchande ; “ ’tis be- 
cyaze dey got a ‘ fixed wuckin’ class.’ ” She sputtered 
and giggled with the general ha, ha. “ Oh, ole Clem- 
ence kin talk proctah, yass ! ” 

She made a gesture for attention. 

D’y’ ebber yeh w’at de cya’ge-hoss say w’en ’e see 
de cyaht-hoss tu’n loose in de sem pawstu’e wid he, an’ 
knowed dat some’ow de cyaht gotteh be haul’ ? W’y 
’e jiz snawt an’ kick up ’is heel’ ” — she suited the action 
to the word — “ an’ tah’ roun’ de fiel’ an’ prance up to 
de fence an’ say : ‘ Whoopy ! shoo ! shoo ! dis yeh 
country gittin’ too free ! ’ ” 

Oh,” she resumed, as soon as she could be heard, 
“ white folks is werry kine. Dey wants us to b’lieb we 
happy — dey wants to bdieb we is. W’y, you know, dey 
’bleeged to b’lieb it — fo’ dey own cyumfut. ’Tis de sem 
weh wid de preache’s ; dey buil’ we ow own sep’ate 
meet’n-houses ; dey b’leebs us lak it de bess, an’ dey 
knows dey lak it de bess.” 

The laugh at this was mostly her own. It is not a 
laughable sight to see the comfortable fractions of Chris- 
tian communities everywhere striving, with sincere, 
pious, well-meant, criminal benevolence, to make their 
poor brethren contented with the ditch. Nor does it 
become so to see these efforts meet, or seem to meet, 
some degree of success. Happily man cannot so place 
Vis brother that his misery will continue unmitigated 


AN INHERITANCE OF IVRONC. 


331 


'^ou may dwarf a man to the mere stump of what he 
ought to be, and yet he will put out green leaves. 

Free from care,” we benignly observe of the dwarfed 
classes of society ; but we forget, or have never thought, 
what a crime we commit when we rob men and women 
of their cares. 

To Clemence the order of society was nothing. Nb 
upheaval could reach to the depth to which she was 
sunk. It is true, she was one of the population. She 
had certain affections toward people and places ; but 
they were not of a consuming sort. 

As for us, our feelings, our sentiments, affections, etc., 
are fine and keen, delicate and many; what we call re- 
fined. Why ? Because we get them as we get our old 
swords and gems and laces — from our grandsires, 
mothers, and all. Refined they are — after centuries of 
refining. But the feelings handed down to Clemence 
had come through ages of African savagery ; through 
fires that do not refine, but that blunt and blast and 
blacken and char ; starvation, gluttony, drunkenness, 
thirst, drowning, nakedness, dirt, fetichism, debauchery, 
slaughter, pestilence and the rest — she was their heiress ; 
they left her the cinders of human feelings. She re- 
membered her mother. They had been separated in 
her childhood, in Virginia when it was a province. She 
remembered, with pride, the price her mother had 
brought at auction, and remarked, as an additional in- 
teresting item, that she had never seen or heard of her 
since. She had had children, assorted colors — had one 
with her now, the black boy that brought the basil to 
Joseph ; the others were here and there, some in the 
Grandissime households or field-gangs, some elsewhere 
within occasional sight, some dead, some not accounted 


332 


THE GRAMDISSIMES. 


for. Husbands — like the Samaritan woman's. We 
know she was a constant singer and laugher. 

And so on that day, when Honors Grandissime had 
advised the Governor-General of Louisiana to be very 
careful to avoid demonstration of any sort if he wished 
to avert a street-war in his little capital, Clemence went 
up one street and down another, singing her song and 
laughing her professional merry laugh. How could it 
be otherwise ? Let events take any possible turn, how 
could it make any difference to Clemence ? What could 
she hope to gain ? What could she fear to lose ? She 
sold some of her goods to Casa Calvo’s Spanish guard 
and sang them a Spanish song ; some to Claiborne’s 
soldiers and sang them Yankee Doodle with unclean 
words of her own inspiration, which evoked true sol- 
diers’ laughter ; some to a priest at his window, ex- 
changing with him a pious comment or two upon the 
wickedness of the times generally and their Americain- 
Protestant-poisoned community in particular ; and (after 
going home to dinner and coming out newly furnished) 
she sold some more of her wares to the excited groups 
of Creoles to which we have had occasion to allude, and 
from whom, insensible as she was to ribaldry, she was 
glad to escape. The day now drawing to a close, she 
turned her steps toward her wonted crouching-place, the 
willow avenue on the levee, near the Place d’Armes. 
But she had hardly defined this decision clearly in her 
mind, and had but just turned out of the rue St. Louis, 
when her song attracted an ear in a second-story room 
under whose window she was passing. As usual it was 
fitted to the passing event : 

“ Apportez moi mo* sabre ^ 

Ba bourn f ba bouri^ bourn ^ boumP* 


AJ\7 INHERITANCE OF WRONG, 


333 


“Run, fetch that girl here,” said Dr. Keene to the 
slave woman who had just entered his room with a 
pitcher of water. 

“Well, old eaves-dropper,” he said, as Clemence 
oame, “ what is the scandal to-day? ” 

Clemence laughed. 

“ You know, Mawse Chawlie, I dunno noth’n’ ’tall 
’bout nobody. I’se a nigga w’at mine my own business. ” 

“Sit down there on that stool, and tell me what is 
going on outside.” 

“ I d’no noth’n’ ’bout no goin’s on ; got no time fo’ 
sit down, me ; got sell my cakes. I don’t goin’ git mix’ 
in wid no white folks’s doin’s.” 

“ Hush, you old hypocrite ; I will buy all your cakes. 
Put them out there on the table.” 

The invalid, sitting up in bed, drew a purse from be- 
hind his pillow and tossed her a large price. She tit- 
tered, courtesied and received the money. 

“ Well, well, Mawse Chawlie, ’f you ain’ de funni’st 
gen’leman I knows, to be sho ! ” 

“Have you seen Joseph Frowenfeld to-day?” he 
asked. 

“ He, he, he ! W’at I got do wid Mawse Frowenfel’ ? 
I goes on de off side o’ sich folks — folks w’at cann’ ’have 
deyself no bette’n dat — he, he, he ! At de same time I 
did happen, jis chancin’ by accident, to see ’im.” 

“ How is he ? ” 

Dr. Keene made plain by his manner that any sensa- 
tional account would receive his instantaneous contempt, 
and she answered within bounds. 

“Well, now, teilin’ the simple trufe, he ain’ much 
hurt.” 

The doctor turned slowly and cautiously in bed. 


334 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


“ Have you seen Honore Grandissime ? ” 

“ W’y — das funny you ass me dat. I jis now see *ira 
dis werry minnit” 

“ Where ? ” 

“Jisgwine into de house wah dat laydy live w’at ’e 
runned over dat ah time.” 

Now, you old hag,” cried the sick man, his weak, 
husky voice trembling with passion, **you know you’re 
telling me a lie.” 

“ No, Mawse Chawlie,” she protested with a coward’s 
frown, “ I swah I tellin’ you de God’s trufe ! ” 

“ Hand me my clothes off that chair.” 

“ Oh ! but, Mawse Chawlie ” 

The little doctor cursed her. She did as she was bid, 
and made as if to leave the room. 

“ Don’t you go away.” 

But Mawse Chawlie, you’ undress’ — he, he ! ” 

She was really abashed and half frightened. 

“ I know that ; and you have got to help me put my 
clothes on.” 

“You gwan kill yo’se’f, Mawse Chawlie,” she said, 
handling a garment. 

“ Hold your black tongue.” 

She dressed him hastily, and he went down the stairs 
of his lodging-house and out into the street. Clemence 
went in search of her master. 


CHAPTER XLIII. 


THE EAGLE VISITS THE DOVES IN THEIR NEST. 

Alphonsina — only living property of Aurora and 
Clotilde — was called upon to light a fire in the little 
parlor. Elsewhere, although the day was declining, few 
persons felt such a need ; but in No. 19 rue Bienville 
there were two chilling influences combined requiring 
an artificial offset. One was the ground under the floor, 
which was only three inches distant, and permanently 
saturated with water ; the other was despair. 

Before this fire the two ladies sat down together like 
watchers, in that silence and vacuity of mind which come 
after an exhaustive struggle ending in the recognition of 
the inevitable ; a torpor of thought, a stupefaction of 
feeling, a purely negative state of joylessness sequent to 
the positive state of anguish. They were now both 
hungry, but in want of some present friend acquainted 
with the motions of mental distress who could guc.ss this 
fact and press them to eat. By their eyes it was plain 
they had been weeping much ; by the subdued tone, 
too, of their short and infrequent speeches. 

Alphonsina, having made the fire, went out with a 
bundle. It was Aurora’s last good dress. She was 
going to try to sell it. 

“ It ought not to be so hard,'*’ began Clotilde, in a 
quiet manner of contemplating some one else’s diffi- 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


336 

culty, but paused with the saying uncompleted, and 
sighed under her breath. 

But it is so hard,” responded Aurora. 

‘‘ No, it ought not to be so hard ” 

“ How, not so hard ? ” 

** It is not so hard to live,” said Clotilde ; but it is 

hard to be ladies. You understand ” she knit her 

fingers, dropped them into her lap and turned her eyes 
toward Aurora, who responded with the same motions, 
adding the crossing of her silk-stockinged ankles before 
the fire. 

“ No,” said Aurora, with a scintillation of irrepressible 
mischief in her eyes. 

“After all,” pursued Clotilde, “ w'hat troubles us is 
not how to make a living, but how to get a living with- 
out making it.” 

“ Ah ! that would be magnificent ! ” said Aurora, and 
then added, more soberly: “but we are compelled to 
make a living.” 

“ No.” 

“ No-o ? Ah ! what do you mean with your no ? ” 

“ I mean it is just the contrary; we are compelled 
not to make a living. Look at me : I can cook, but I 
must not cook ; I am skillful with the needle, but I must 
not take in sewing ; I could keep accounts ; I could 
nurse the sick ; but I must not. I could be a confec- 
tioner, a milliner, a dressmaker, a vest-maker, a cleaner 
of gloves and laces, a dyer, a bird-seller, a mattress- 
maker, an upholsterer, a dancing-teacher, a florist ” 

“Oh!” softly exclaimed Aurora, in English, “ you 
could be — you know w’ad ? — an egcellen’ drug-cl’ — ah, 
ha, ha!” 


THE EAGLE VISITS THE DOVES IN THEIR NEST. 337 

But the threatened irruption was averted by a look of 
tender apology from Aurora, in reply to one of martyr- 
dom from Clotilde. 

** My angel daughter,” said Aurora, “ if society has 
decreed that ladies must be ladies, then that is our first 
duty ; our second is to live. Do you not see why it is 
that this practical world does not permit ladies to make 
a living ? Because if they could, none of them would 
ever consent to be married. Ha ! women talk about 
marrying for love ; but society is too sharp to trust 
them, yet ! It makes it necessary to marry. I will tell 
you the honest truth ; some days when I get very, very 
hungry, and we have nothing but rice — all because we 
are ladies without male protectors — I think society could 
drive even me to marriage ! — for your sake, though, 
darling ; of course, only for your sake ! ” 

Never!” replied Clotilde; “for my sake, never ; 
for your own sake if you choose. I should not care. I 
should be glad to see you do so if it would make you 
happy ; but never for my sake and never for hunger's 
sake ; but for love’s sake, yes ; and God bless thee, 
pretty maman.” 

“Clotilde, dear,” said the unconscionable widow, “let 
me assure you, once for all, — starvation is preferable. I 
nean for me, you understand, simply for me ; that is my 
feeling on the subject.” 

Clotilde turned her saddened eyes with a steady scru- 
tiny upon her deceiver, who gazed upward in apparently 
unconscious reverie, and sighed softly as she laid her head 
upon the high chair-back and stretched out her feet. 

“ I wish Alphonsina would come back,” she said. 
“ Ah!” she added, hearing a footfall on the step out- 
side the street door, “ there she is.” 

15 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


33 ^ ^ 

She arose and drew the bolt Unseen to her, the per 
son whose footsteps she had heard stood upon the door- 
step with a hand lifted to knock, but pausing to “ make 
up his mind.” He heard the bolt shoot back, recog- 
nized the nature of the mistake, and, feeling that here 
again he was robbed of volition, rapped. 

“ That is not Alphonsina ! ” 

The two ladies looked at each other and turned pale. 

“But you must open it,” whispered Clotilde, half 
rising. 

Aurora opened the door, and changed from white to 
crimson. Clotilde rose up quickly. The genb sman 
h'fted his hat. 

“ Madame Nancanou.” 

“ M. Grandissime ? ” 

“ Oui, Madame.” 

For once, Aurora was in an uncontrollable flutter 
She stammered, lost her breath, and even spoke worse 
French than she needed to have done. 

“ Be pi — pleased, sir — to enter. Clotilde, my daugh 
ter — Monsieur Grandissime. P-please be seated, sir. 
Monsieur Grandissime,” — she dropped into a chair with 
an air of vivacity pitiful to behold, — “ I suppose you 
have come for the rent.” She blushed even more vio- 
lently than before, and her hand stole upward upon her 
heart to stay its violent beating. “ Clotilde, dear, I 
should be glad if you would put the fire before the 
screen ; it is so much too warm.” She pushed her chair 
back and shaded her face with her hand. “ I think the 
warmer is growing weather outside, is it — is it not ? ” 

The struggles of a wounded bird could not have been 
more piteous. Monsieur Grandissime sought to speak. 
Clotilde, too, nerved by the sight of her mother’s em 


THE EAGLE VISITS THE DOVES IN THEIR NES7\ 339 

harassment, came to her support, and she and the visitor 
spoke in one breath. 

“ Maman, if Monsieur— pardon ” 

** Madame Nancanou, the — pardon. Mademoiselle.” 

** I have presumed to call upon you,” resumed M. 
Grandissime, addressing himself now to both ladies at 
once, “ to see if I may enlist you in a purely benevo- 
lent undertaking in the interest of one who has been 
unfortunate — a common acquaintance ” 

** Common acquaint — ” interrupted Aurora, with a 
hostile lighting of her eyes. 

“ I believe so — Professor Frowenfeld.” M. Grandis 
sime saw Clotilde start, and in her turn falsely accuse 
the fire by shading her face : but it was no time to stop. 
“ Ladies,” he continued, please allow me, for the sake 
of the good it may effect, to speak plainly and to the 
point.” 

The ladies expressed acquiescence by settling them- 
selves to hear. 

Professor Frowenfeld had the extraordinary misfor- 
tune this morning to incur the suspicion of having en- 
tered a house for the purpose of — at least, for a bad 
design ” 

‘'He is innocent!” came from Clotilde, against her 
intention ; Aurora covertly put out a hand, and Clotilde 
clutched it nervously. 

“As, for example, robbery,” said the self-recovered 
Aurora, ignoring Clotilde’s look of protestation. 

“Call it so,” responded M. Grandissime. “Have 
you heard at whose house this was ? ” 

“ No, sir.” 

“ It was at the house of Palmyre Philosophe.” 

^‘Palmyre Philosophe!” exclaimed Aurora, in low 


340 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


astonishment. Clotilde let slip, in a tone of indignant 
incredulity, a soft Ah ! ” Aurora turned, and with 
some hope that M. Grandissime would not understand, 
ventured to say in Spanish, quietly : 

Come, come, this will never do.” 

And Clotilde replied in the same tongue : 

I know it, but he is innocent.” 

“ Let us understand each other,” said their visitor. 

There is not the faintest idea in the mind of one of us 
that Professor Frowenfeld is guilty of even an intention 
of wrong ; otherwise I should not be here. He is a man 
simply incapable of anything' ignoble.” 

Clotilde was silent. Aurora answered promptly, with 
the air of one not to be excelled in generosity : 

‘‘ Certainly, he is very incapabl’.” 

Still,” resumed the visitor, turning especially to Clo- 
tilde, “ the known facts are these, according to his own 
statement : he was in the house of Palmyre on some legi- 
timate business which, unhappily, he considers himself 
on some account bound not to disclose, and by some 
mistake of Palmyre’s old Congo woman, was set upon by 
her and wounded, barely escaping with a whole skull into 
the street, an object of public scandal. Laying aside 
the consideration of his feelings, his reputation is at 
stake and likely to be ruined unless the affair can be ex- 
plained clearly and satisfactorily, and at once, by his 
friends.” 

“ And you undertake ” began Aurora. 

Madame Nancanou,” said Honore Grandissime, lean- 
ing toward her earnestly, ‘‘ you know — I must beg leave 
to appeal to your candor and confidence — you know 
everything concerning Palmyre that I know. You know 
me, and who I am ; you know it is not for me to under 


THE EAGLE VISITS THE DOVES IN THEIR NEST. 34 ^ 


take to confer with Palmyre. I know, too, her old 
affection for you ; she lives but a little way down this 
street upon which you live ; there is still daylight enough 
at your disposal ; if you will, you can go to see her, and 
get from her a full and complete exoneration of this 
young man. She cannot come to you ; she is not fit tc 
leave her room.” 

“ Cannot leave her room ? ” 

** I am, possibly, violating confidence in this disclo- 
sure, but it is unavoidable — you have to know ; she is 
not fully recovered from a pistol-shot wound received 
between two and three weeks ago.” 

** Pistol-shot wound ! ” 

Both ladies started forward with open lips and excla- 
mations of amazement. 

** Received from a third person — not myself and not 
Professor Frowenfeld — in a desperate attempt made by 
her to avenge the wrongs which she has suffered, as 
you, Madame, as well as I, are aware, at the hands 
of ” 


I 


! 


Aurora rose up with a majestic motion for the speaker 
to desist. 

“ If it is to mention the person of whom your allusion 
reminds me, that you have honored us with a call this 
evening. Monsieur ” 

Her eyes were flashing as he had seen them flash in 
front of the Place d’Armes. 

I beg you not to suspect me of meanness,” he an- 
swered, gently, and with a remonstrative smile. I 
have been trying all day, in a way unnecessary to ex- 
plain, to be generous.” 

“ I suppose you are incapabl’,” said Aurora, following 
her double meaning with that combination of mischiev- 


542 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


ous eyes and unsmiling face of which she was master 
She resumed her seat, adding : It is generous for you 
to admit that Palmyre has suffered wrongs.” 

** It wouldh^^' he replied, “ to attempt to repair them, 
seeing that I am not responsible for them, but this I can- 
not claim yet to have done. I have asked of you, Ma^ 
dame, a generous act. I might ask another of you both 
jointly. It is to permit me to say without offence, that 
there is one man, at least, of the name of Grandissime 
who views with regret and mortification the yet deeper 
wrongs which you are even now suffering.” 

** Oh ! ” exclaimed Aurora, inwardly ready for fierce 
tears, but with no outward betrayal save a trifle too much 
grace and an over-bright smile, “ Monsieur is much mis- 
taken ; we are quite comfortable and happy, wanting 
nothing, eh, Clotilde ? — not even our rights, ha, ha ! ” 

She rose and let Alphonsina in. The bundle was still 
in the negress’s arms, and passed through the room and 
disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. 

“Oh! no, sir, not at all,” repeated Aurora, as she 
once more sat down. 

“ You ought to want your rights,” said M. Grandis- 
sime. “ You ought to have them.” 

“ You think so ? ” 

Aurora was really finding it hard to conceal her grow- 
ing excitement, and turned, with a faint hope of relief, 
toward Clotilde. 

Clotilde, looking only at their visitor, but feeling her 
mother’s glance, with a tremulous and half-choked voice, 
said eagerly : 

“ Then why do you not give them to us ? ” 

“ Ah ! ” interposed Aurora, “ we shall get them to- 
morrow, when the sheriff comes,” 


THE EAGLE VISITS THE DOVES IN THEIR NEST, 343 

And, thereupon, what did Clotilde do but sit bolt up- 
right, with her hands in her lap, and let the tears roll, 
tear after tear, down her cheeks. 

''Yes, Monsieur,'’ said Aurora, smiling still, "those 
that you see are really tears. Ha, ha, ha ! excuse me, I 
really have to laugh ; for I just happened to remember 
our meeting at the masked ball last September. We 
had such a pleasant evening and were so much indebted 
to you for our enjoyment, — particularly myself, — little 
thinking, you know, that you were one of that great 
family which believes we ought to have our rights, you 
know. There are many people who ought to have their 
rights. There was Bras-Coupe ; indeed, he got them — 
found them in the swamp. Maybe Clotilde and I shall 
find ours in the street. When we unmasked in the thea- 
tre, you know, I did not know you were my landlord, 
and you did not know that I could not pay a few pica- 
yunes of rent. But you must excuse those tears ; Clo- 
tilde is generally a brave little woman, and would not be 
so rude as to weep before a stranger ; but she is weak 
to-day — we are both weak to-day, from the fact that we 
have eaten nothing since early morning, although we 
have abundance of food — for want of appetite, you un- 
<^..;rstand. You must sometimes be affected the same 
way, having the care of so much wealth of all sorts'" 

Honore Grandissime had risen to his feet and was 
standing with one hand on the edge of the lofty mantel, 
his hat in the other dropped at his side and his eye fixed 
upon Aurora’s beautiful face, whence her small nervous 
hand kept dashing aside the tears through which she de- 
fiantly talked and smiled. Clotilde sat with clenched 
hands buried in her lap, looking at Aurora and stilj 
weeping. 


344 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


And M. Grandissime was saying to himself : 

** If I do this thing now — if I do it here — I do it on an 
impulse ; I do it under constraint of woman’s tears ; I 
do it because I love this woman ; I do it to get out of a 
corner ; I do it in weakness, not in strength ; I do it 
without having made up my mind whether or not it is 
the best thing to do.” 

And then without intention, with scarcely more con- 
sciousness of movement than belongs to the undermined 
tree which settles, roots and all, into the swollen stream, 
he turned and moved toward the door. 

Clotilde rose. 

“ Monsieur Grandissime.” 

He stopped and looked back. 

“We will see Palmyre at once, according to your re 
quest.” 

He turned his eyes toward Aurora. 

“ Yes,” said she, and she buried her face in her hand- 
kerchief and sobbed aloud. 

She heard his footstep again ; it reached the door ; 
the door opened — closed ; she heard his footstep again ; 
was he gone ? 

He was gone. 

The two women threw themselves into each other’s 
arms and wept. Presently Clotilde left the room. She 
came back in a moment from the rear apartment, with a 
bonnet and vail in her hands. 

“ No,” said Aurora, rising quickly, “ I must do it.” 

“There is no time to lose,” said Clotilde. “ It will 
soon be dark.” 

It was hardly a minute before Aurora was ready to 
start. A kiss, a sorrowful look of love exchanged, the veil 
dropped over the swollen eyes, and Aurora was gone. 


THE EAGLE VISITS THE DOVES HI THEIR NEST. 345 

A minute passed, hardly more, and — what was this ? — 
the soft patter of Aurora’s knuckles on the door. 

Just here at the corner I saw Palmy re leaving her 
house and walking down the rue Royale. We must wait 
until morn ” 

Again a footfall on the doorstep, and the door, which 
was standing ajar, was pushed slightly by the force of the 
masculine knock which followed. 

“Allow me,” said the voice of Honore Grandissime, 
as Aurora bowed at the door. “ I should have handed 
you this; good-day.” 

She received a missive. It was long, like an official 
document ; it bore evidence of having been carried for 
some hours in a coat-pocket, and was folded in one of 
those old, troublesome ways in use before the days of 
envelopes. Aurora pulled it open. 

“ It is all figures ; light a candle.” 

The candle was lighted by Clotilde and held over Au- 
rora’s shoulder ; they saw a heading and footing more 
conspicuous than the rest of the writing. 

The heading read : 

“ Aurora and Clotilde Nancanou^ owners of Fausse Rivikre Plantation, 
in account with Honore Grandissime.'^ 

The footing read : 

** Balance at credit, subject to order of Aurora and Clotilde Nancanou^ 
$ 105 , 000 . 00 .” 

The date followed : 

** March g, 1804 .” 

and the signature ; 

** H. Grandiisinul* 


346 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


A small piece of torn white paper slipped from the 
account to the floor. Clotilde s eye followed it, but 
Aurora, without acknowledgment of having seen it, cov- 
ered it with her foot. 

In the morning Aurora awoke first. She drew from 
under her pillow this slip of paper. She had not dared 
look at it until now. The writing on it had been roughly 
scratched down with a pencil. It read : 

Not for love of womariy but in the name of jtistice and the fear of 
God:^ 


“ And I was so cruel,” she whispered. 

Ah ! Honore Grandissime, she was kind to that little 
writing! She did not put it back under her pillow; she 
kept it warm, Honore Grandissime, from that time forth. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 


BAD FOR CHARLIE KEENE. 

On the same evening of which we have been telling, 
about the time that Aurora and Clotilde were dropping 
their last tear of joy over the document of restitution, a 
noticeable figure stood alone at the corner of the rue du 
Canal and the rue Chartres. He had reached there and 
paused, just as the brighter glare of the set sun was 
growing dim above the tops of the cypresses. After 
walking with some rapidity of step, he had stopped 
aimlessly, and laid his hand with an air of weariness 
upon a rotting China-tree that leaned over the ditch at 
the edge of the unpaved walk. 

“Setting in cypress,” he murmured. We need not 
concern ourselves as to his meaning. 

One could think aloud there with impunity. In 
1804, Canal street was the upper boundary of New 
Orleans. Beyond it, to southward, the open plain was 
dotted with country-houses, brick-kilns, clumps of live- 
oak and groves of pecan. At the hour mentioned the 
outlines of these objects were already darkening. At 
one or two points the sky was reflected from marshy 
ponds. Out to westward rose conspicuously the old 
house and willow-copse of Jean-Poquelin. Down the 
empty street or road, which stretched with arrow-like 
straightness toward the north-west, the draining-canal 


348 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


that gave it its name tapered away between occasional 
overhanging willows and beside broken ranks of rotting 
palisades, its foul, crawling waters blushing and gliding 
and purpling under the swiftly waning light, and ending 
suddenly in the black shadow of the swamp. The ob- 
server of this dismal prospect leaned heavily on his arm, 
and cast his glance out along the beautified corruption 
of the canal. His eye seemed quickened to detect the 
smallest repellant details of the scene ; every cypress 
stump that stood in or overhung the slimy water ; every 
ruined indigo-vat or blasted tree, every broken thing, 
every bleached bone of ox or horse — and they were 
many — for roods around. As his eye passed them slowly 
over and swept back again around the dreary view, he 
sighed heavily and said: ** Dissolution,” and then again 
— Dissolution ! order of the day ” 

A secret overhearer might have followed, by these 
occasional exclamatory utterances, the course of a de- 
vouring trouble prowling up and down through his 
thoughts, as one’s eye tracks the shark by the occa- 
sional cutting of his fin above the water. 

He spoke again : 

It is in such moods as this that fools drown them- 
selves.” 

His speech was French. He straightened up, smote 
the tree softly with his palm, and breathed a long, deep 
sigh — such a sigh, if the very truth be told, as belongs 
by right to a lover. And yet his mind did »ot dwell on 
love. 

He turned and left the place ; but the trouble that 
was plowing hither and thither through the deep of his 
meditations went with him. As he turned into the rue 
Chartres it showed itself thus : 


BAD FOB CHARLIE JCEENE. 349 

** Right ; it is but right ; ” he shook his head slowly — 
** it is but right.” 

In the rue Douane he spoke again : 

Ah ! Frowenfeld” — and smiled unpleasantly, with 
his head down. 

And as he made yet another turn, and took his medi- 
tative way down the city’s front, along the blacksmith- 
shops in the street afterward called Old Levee, he re- 
sumed, in English, and with a distinctness that made a 
staggering sailor halt and look after him : 

“There are but two steps to civilization, the first 
easy, the second difficult ; to construct — to recon- 
struct — ah ! there it is ! the tearing down ! The 
tear ” 

He was still, but repeated the thought by a gesture 
of distress turned into a slow stroke of the forehead. 

“ Monsieur Honor^ Grandissime,” said a voice just 
ahead. 

“ Eh, bien ? " 

At the mouth of an alley, in the dim light of the street 
lamp, stood the dark figure of Honors Grandissime, 
f. m. c., holding up the loosely hanging form of a small 
man, the whole front of whose clothing was saturated 
with blood. 

“ Why, Charlie Keene ! Let him down again, quickly 
— quickly ; do not hold him so ! ” 

“ Hands off,” came in a ghastly whisper from the shape, 

“ Oh, Chahlie, my boy — — ” 

“ Go and finish your courtship,” whispered the 
doctor. 

“ Oh Charlie, I have just made it forever impossible ! ” 

“Then help me back to my bed; I don’t care to die 
in the street.” 


CHAPTER XLV. 


MORE REPARATION. 

“ That is all,” said the fairer Honor6, outside Doctof 
Keene’s sick-room about ten o’clock at night. He was 
speaking to the black son of Clemence, who had been 
serving as errand-boy for some hours. He spoke in a 
low tone just without the half-open door, folding again a 
paper which the lad had lately borne to the apothecary 
of the rue Royale, and had now brought back with 
Joseph’s answer written under Honor6’s inquiry. 

“ That is all,” said the other Honore, standing partly 
behind the first, as the eyes of his little menial turned 
upon him that deprecatory glance of inquiry so common 
to slave children. The lad went a little way down the 
corridor, curled up upon the floor against the wall, and 
was soon asleep. The fairer Honor^ handed the darker 
the slip of paper ; it was received and returned in 
silence ; the question was : 

Can you state anything positive concerning the duel ? ” 

And the reply : 

** Positively there will be none. Sylvestre my sworn friend for lifeP 

The half-brothers sat down under a dim hanging lamp 
in the corridor, and except that every now and then one 
or the other stepped noiselessly to the door to look in 


MO/i£ REPARATION, 


351 


upon the sleeping sick man, or in the opposite direction 
to moderate by a push with the foot the snoring of 
Clemence’s boy,” they sat the whole night through in 
whispered counsel. 

The one, at the request of the other, explained how 
he had come to be with the little doctor in such ex- 
tremity. 

It seems that Clemence, seeing and understanding 
the doctor’s imprudence, had sallied out with the resolve 
to set some person on his track. We have said that she 
went in search of her master. Him she met, and though 
she could not really count him one of the doctor’s 
friends, yet, rightly believing in his humanity, she told 
him the matter. He set off in what was for him a quick 
pace in search of the rash invalid, was misdirected by a 
too confident child and had given up the hope of finding 
him, when a faint sound of distress just at hand drew 
him into an alley, where, close dowm against a wall, with 
his face to the earth, lay Doctor Keene. The f. m. c. 
had just raised him and borne him out of the alley when 
Honord came up. 

“ And you say that, when you would have inquired 
for him at Frowenfeld’s, you saw Palmyre there, standing 
and talking with Frowenfeld ? Tell me more exactly.” 

And the other, with that grave and gentle economy 
of words which made his speech so unique, recounted 
what we amplify : 

Palmyre had needed no pleading to induce her to ex- 
onerate Joseph. The doctors were present at Frowen- 
feld’s in more than usual number. There W'as unusual- 
ness, too, in their manner and their talk. They were 
not entirely free from the excitement of the day, and as 
they talked — with an air of superiority, of Creole in* 


352 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


flammability, and with some contempt— concerning 
Camille Brahmin’s and Charlie Mandarin’s efforts to 
precipitate a war, they were yet visibly in a state of 
expectation. Frowenfeld, they softly said, had in his 
odd way been indiscreet among these inflammables at 
Maspero’s just when he could least afford to be so, and 
there was no telling what they might take the notion to 
do to him before bedtime. All that over and above the 
independent, unexplained scandal of the early morning. 
So Joseph and his friends this evening, like Aurora and 
Clotilde in the morning, were, as we nowadays say of 
buyers and sellers, “ apart,” when suddenly and unan- 
nounced, Palmyre presented herself among them. When 
the f. m. c. saw her, she had already handed Joseph his 
hat and with much sober grace was apologizing for her 
slave’s mistake. All evidence of her being wounded 
was concealed. The extraordinary excitement of the 
morning had not hurt her, and she seemed in perfect 
health. The doctors sat or stood around and gave rapt 
attention to her patois, one or two translating it for 
Joseph, and he blushing to the hair, but standing erect 
and receiving it at second-hand with silent bows. The 
f. m. c. had gazed on her for a moment, and then forced 
himself away. He was among the few who had not 
heard the morning scandal, and he did not comprehend 
the evening scene. He now asked Honore concerning 
it, and quietly showed great relief when it was explained. 

Then Honore, breaking a silence, called the attention 
of the f. m. c. to the fact that the latter had two tenants 
at No. 19 rue Bienville. Honore became the narrator 
now and told all, finally stating that the die was cast — 
restitution made. 

And then the darker Honore made a proposition to 


MORE REPARATION. 353 

the other, which, it is little to say, was startling. They 
discussed it for hours. 

“ So just a condition,” said the merchant, raising his 
whisper so much that the rentier laid a hand in his el- 
bow, — ‘^such mere justice,” he said, more softly, 
“ought to be an easy condition. God knows” — he 
lifted his glance reverently — “ my very right to exist 
comes after yours. You are the elder.” 

The solemn man offered no disclaimer. 

What could the proposition be which involved so 
grave an issue, and to which M. Grandissime’s final 
answer was “ I will do it ” ? 

It was that Honors f. m. c. should become a member 
of the mercantile house of H. Grandissime, enlisting in 
its capital all his wealth. And the one condition was 
that the new style should be Grandissime Brothers, 


CHAPTER XLVL 


THE PIQUE-EN-TERRE LOSES ONE OF HER CREW. 

Ask the average resident of New Orleans if his town 
is on an island, and he will tell you no. He will also 
wonder how any one could have got that notion, — so 
completely has Orleans Island, whose name at the begin- 
ning of the present century was in everybody’s mouth, 
been forgotten. It was once a question of national 
policy, a point of difference between Republican and 
Federalist, whether the United States ought to buy this 
little strip of semi -submerged land, or whether it would 
not be more righteous to steal it. The Kentuckians 
kept the question at a red heat by threatening to be- 
come an empire by themselves if one course or the oth- 
er was not taken ; but when the First Consul offered to 
sell all Louisiana, our commissioners were quite robbed 
of breath. They had approached to ask a hair from the 
elephant’s tail, and were offered the elephant. 

For Orleans Island — island it certainly was until Gen- 
eral Jackson closed Bayou Manchac — is a narrow, irregu- 
lar, flat tract of forest, swamp, city, prairie and sea- 
marsh lying east and west, with the Mississippi, trending 
south-eastward, for its southern boundary, and for its 
northern, a parallel and contiguous chain of alternate 
lakes and bayous, opening into the river through Bayou 
Manchac, and into the Gulf through the passes of the 


THE PI Q UE-EN- TERRE L OSES ONE OF HER CRE W. 355 

Malheureuse Islands. On the narrowest part of it stands 
New Orleans. Turning and looking back over the rear 
of the town, one may easily see from her steeples Lake 
Pontchartrain glistening away to the northern horizon, 
and in his fancy extend the picture to right and left till 
Pontchartrain is linked in the west by Pass Manchac to 
Lake Maurepas, and in the east by the Rigolets and 
Chef Menteur to Lake Borgne. 

An oddity of the Mississippi Delta is the habit the 
little streams have of running away from the big ones. 
The river makes its own bed and its own banks, and 
continuing season after season, through ages of alter- 
nate overflow and subsidence, to elevate those banks, 
creates a ridge which thus becomes a natural elevated 
aqueduct. Other slightly elevated ridges mark the pres- 
ent or former courses of minor outlets, by which the 
waters of the Mississippi have found the sea. Between 
these ridges lie the cypress swamps, through whose 
profound shades the clear, dark, deep bayous creep 
noiselessly away into the tall grasses of the shaking 
prairies. The original New Orleans was built on the 
Mississippi ridge, with one of these forest-and-water-cov- 
ered basins stretching back behind her to westward and 
northward, closed in by Metairie Ridge and Lake Pont- 
chartrain. Local engineers preserve the tradition that 
the Bayou Sauvage once had its rise, so to speak, in 
Toulouse street. Though depleted by the city’s pres- 
ent drainage system and most likely poisoned by it as 
well, its waters still move seaward in a course almost 
due easterly, and empty into Chef Menteur, one of the 
watery threads of a tangled skein of “ passes ” between 
the lakes and the open Gulf. Three-quarters of a cen- 
tury ago this Bayou Sauvage (or Gentilly — corruption 


35 ^ 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


of Chantilly) was a navigable stream of wild and sombre 
beauty. 

On a certain morning in August, 1804, and conse- 
quently some five months after the events last men- 
tioned, there emerged from the darkness of Bayou Sau* 
vage into the prairie-bordered waters of Chef Menteur, 
while the morning star was still luminous in the sky 
above and in the water below, and only the practised 
eye could detect the first glimmer of day, a small, 
stanch, single-masted, broad and very light-draught 
boat, whose innocent character, primarily indicated in 
its coat of many colors, — the hull being yellow below 
the water line and white above, with tasteful stripings 
of blue and red, — was further accentuated by the peace- 
ful name of Pique-en-terre (the Sandpiper). 

She seemed, too, as she entered the Chef Menteur, as 
if she would have liked to turn southward ; but the wind 
did not permit this, and in a moment more the water 
was rippling after her swift rudder, as she glided away 
in the direction of Pointe Aux Herbes. But when she 
had left behind her the mouth of the passage, she 
changed her course and, leaving the Pointe on her left, 
bore down toward Petites Coquilles, obviously bent upon 
passing through the Rigolets. 

We know not how to describe the joyousness of the 
effect when at length one leaves behind him the shadow 
and gloom of the swamp, and there bursts upon his 
sight the widespread, flower-decked, bird-haunted prai- 
ries of Lake Catharine. The inside and outside of a 
prison scarcely furnish a greater contrast ; and on this 
fair August morning the contrast was at its strongest. 
The day broke across a glad expanse of cool and fra- 
grant green, silver-laced with a net-work of crisp salt 


THE PIQUE-EN-TERRE LOSES ONE OF HER CREW. 357 

pools and passes, lakes, bayous and lagoons, that gave 
a good smell, the inspiring odor of interclasped sea and 
shore, and both beautified and perfumed the happy 
earth, laid bare to the rising sun. Waving marshes of 
wild oats, drooping like sated youth from too much plea- 
sure ; watery acres hid under crisp-growing greenth 
starred with pond-lilies and rippled by water-fowl ; 
broad stretches of high grass, with thousands of ecstatic 
wings palpitating above them ; hundreds of thousands 
of ^diite and pink mallows clapping their hands in voice- 
less rapture, and that amazon queen of the wild flowers, 
the morning-glory, stretching her myriad lines, lifting 
up the trumpet and waving her colors, white, azure and 
pink, with lacings of spider’s web, heavy with pearls 
and diamonds — the gifts of the summer night. The 
crew of the Pique-en-terre saw all these and felt them ; 
for, whatever they may have been or failed to be, they 
were men whose heart-strings responded to the touches 
of nature. One alone of their company, and he the one 
who should have felt them most, showed insensibility, 
sighed laughingly and then laughed sighingly in the 
face of his fellows and of all this beauty, and profanely 
confessed that his heart’s desire was to get back to his 
wife. He had been absent from her now for nine 
hours ! 

But the sun is getting high ; Petites Coquilles has 
been passed and left astern, the eastern end of Las Con- 
chas is on the after-larboard-quarter, the briny waters 
of Lake Borgne flash far and wide their dazzling white 
and blue, and, as the little boat issues from the deep 
channel of the Rigolets, the white-armed waves catch 
her and toss her like a merry babe. A triumph for the 
helmsman — he it is who sighs, at intervals of tiresome 


358 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


frequency, for his wife. He had, from the very starting 
place in the upper waters of Bayou Sauvage, declared in 
favor of the Rigolets as — wind and tide considered — the 
most practicable of all the passes. Now that they were 
out, he forgot for a moment the self-amusing plaint of 
conjugal separation to flaunt his triumph. Would any 
one hereafter dispute with him on the subject of Louisi- 
ana sea-coast-navigation ? He knew every pass and 
piece of water like A, B, C, and could tell, faster, much 
faster than he could repeat the multiplication table (upon 
which he was a little slow and doubtful), the amount of 
water in each at ebb tide — Pass Jean or Petit Pass, Un- 
known Pass, Petit Rigolet, Chef Menteur, 

Out on the far southern horizon, in the Gulf — the 
Gulf of Mexico — there appears a speck of white. It is 
known to those on board the Piqiie-en~terrey the mo- 
ment it is descried, as the canvas of a large schooner. 
The opinion, first expressed by the youthful husband, 
who still reclines with the tiller held firmly under his 
arm, and then by another member of the company who 
sits on the centre-board-well, is unanimously adopted, 
that she is making for the Rigolets, will pass Petites 
Coquilles by eleven o’clock, and will tie up at the little 
port of St. Jean, on the bayou of the same name, before 
sundown, if the wind holds anywise as it is. 

On the other hand, the master of the distant schooner 
shuts his glass, and says to the single passenger whom 
he has aboard that the little sail just visible toward the 
Rigolets is a sloop with a half-deck, well filled with 
men, in all probability a pleasure-party bound to the 
Chandeleurs on a fishing and gunning excursion, and 
passes into comments on the superior skill of landsmen 
over seamen in the handling of small sailing craft. 


THE PIQ UE-EN- TERRE L OSES ONE OF HER CRE W. 359 




By and by the two vessels near each other. They 
approach within hailing distance, and are announcing 
each to each their identity, when the young man at the 
tiller jerks himself to a squatting posture, and, from 
under a broad-brimmed and slouched straw hat, cries to 
the schooner’s one passenger : 

** Hello, Challie Keene ! ” 

And the passenger more quietly answers back : 

Hello, Raoul, is that you ? ” 

M. Innerarity replied, with a profane parenthesis, that 
it was he. 

You kin hask Sylvestre ! ” he concluded. 

The doctor’s eye passed around a semicircle of some 
eight men, the most of whom were quite young, but 
one or two of whom were gray, sitting with their arms 
thrown out upon the wash-board, in the dark neglige 
of amateur fishermen and with that exultant look of ex- 
pectant deviltry in their handsome faces which charac- 
terizes the Creole with his collar off. 

The mettlesome little doctor felt the odds against him 
in the exchange of greetings. 

“ Ola, Dawctah ! ” 

J7/, Doctah, que-ce qui faprh f^f ** 

** Ho^ hOy comptre Noyo ! ” 

** Comment va^ Docta ? ” 

A light peppering of profanity accompanied each sa- 
lute. 

The doctor put on defensively a smile of superiority 
to the juniors and of courtesy to the others, and respon- 
sively spoke their names : 

‘ * ’Polyte — Sylvestre — Achille — Emile — ah ! Aga« 
memnon.” 

The Doctor and Agamemnon raised their hats. 


300 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


As Agamemnon was about to speak, a general expos* 
tulatory outcry drowned his voice ; the Pique-en-terrt 
was going about close abreast of the schooner, and 
angry questions and orders were flying at Raoul’s head 
like a volley of eggs. 

Messieurs,” said Raoul, partially rising but still 
stooping over the tiller, and taking his hat off his bright 
curls with mock courtesy, “ I am going back to New 
Orleans. I would not give that for all the fish in the 
sea ; I want to see my wife. I am going back to New 
Orleans to see my wife — and to congratulate the city ■ 
upon your absence.” Incredulity, expostulation, re- | 
proach, taunt, malediction— he smiled unmoved upon 
them all. “ Messieurs, I must go and see my wife.” 

Amid redoubled outcries he gave the helm to Camille 
Brahmin, and fighting his way with his pretty feet I 
against half- real efforts to throw him overboard, clam- * 
bered forward to the mast, whence a moment later, with ! 
the help of the schooner- master’s hand, he reached the ' 
deck of the larger vessel. The Pique -en-terre turned, i 
and with a little flutter spread her smooth wing and f 
skimmed away. 

“ Doctah Keene, look yeh ! ” M. Innerarity held up !; 
a hand whose third finger wore the conventional ring of 
the Creole bridegroom. “ W’at you got to say to t 

dat ? ” I 

The little doctor felt a faintness run through his veins. | 
and a thrill of anger follow it. The poor man could \ 
not imagine a love affair that did not include Clotilde f 
Nancanou. I 

Whom have you married ? ” ’ 

** De pritties’ gal in de citty.” 

The questioner controlled himself. 


THE E/QHE-EH- TEEEE LOSES OME OE HER CRE W. $6 i 

“ M-hum,” he responded, with a contraction of the 
eyes. 

Raoul waited an instant for some kindlier comment, 
and finding the hope vain, suddenly assumed a look of 
delighted admiration. 

“ Hi, yi, yi ! Doctah, ’ow you har lookingue fine.” 

The true look of the doctor was that he had not much 
longer to live. A smile of bitter humor passed over 
his face, and he looked for a near seat, saying : 

How’s FrowenfeM ? ” 

Raoul struck an ecstatic attitude and stretched forth 
his hand as if the doctor could not fail to grasp it. The 
invalid’s heart sank like lead. 

Frowenfeld has got her,” he thought. 

Well ? ” said he with a frown of impatience and re- 
straint ; and Raoul cried : 

“ I sole my pig-shoe ! ” 

The doctor could not help but laugh. 

“ Shades of the masters ! ” 

No ; ‘ Louizyanna rif-using to hantre de h-Union.’ ” 

The doctor stood corrected. 

The two walked across the deck, following the shadow 
of the swinging saif The doctor lay down in a low- 
swung hammock, and Raoul sat upon the deck h la 
Turque. 

“ Come, come, Raoul, tell me, what is the news ? ” 

*‘News? Oh, I donno. You ’eard concernin’ the 
dool?” 

** You don’t mean to say ” 

Yesseh ! ” 

Agricola and Sylvestre ? ” 

“ W’at de dev’ ! No ! Burr an’ ’Ammiltong ; in Noo 
Juzzylas-June. Collonnel Burr, ’e ” 

i6 


3^2 


GJiAJ ^SIMES. 


** Oh, fudge ! yes. How is Frowenfeld ? ” 

‘‘ ’E’s well. Guess 'ow much I sole my pig-shoe.*’ 

‘‘ Well, how much ? ” 

“Two 'ondred fifty.” He laid himself out at length, 
his elbow on the deck, his head in his hand. I be- 
lieve I’m sorry I sole ’er.” 

“I don’t wonder. How’s Honor6 ? Tell me what 
has happened. Remember, I’ve been away five 
months.” 

“ No ; I am verrie glad dat I sole ’er. What ? Ha ! I 
should think so ! If it have not had been fo’ dat I would 
not be married to-day. You think I would get married 
on dat sal’rie w’at Proffis-or Frowenfel’ was payin’ me ? 
Twenty-five dolla’ de mont’ ? Docta Keene, no gen’le- 
man h-ought to git married if ’e ’ave not anny’ow fifty 
dolla’ de mont’ ! If I wasn’ a h-artiz I wouldn’ git mar- 
ried ; I gie you my word ! ” 

Yes,” said the little doctor, ** you are right. Now 
tell me the news.” 

‘‘Well, dat Cong-ress gone an’ mak’ ” 

“ Raoul, stop. I know that Congress has divided 
the province into two territories ; I know you Creoles 
think all your liberties are lost ; I know the people are 
in a great stew because they are not allowed to elect 
their own officers and legislatures, and that in Opelousas 
and Attakapas they are as wild as their cattle about 

“We ’ad two big mitting’ about it,” interrupted 
Raoul ; “ my bro’r-in-law speak at both of them ! ” 

“ Who ? ” 

“Chahlie Mandarin.” 

“ Glad to hear it,” said Doctor Keene, — which was I 
the truth. “ Besides that, T know Laussat has gone to | 


THE PIQUE-EN-TERRE LOSES ONE OF HER CREW. 363 

Martinique ; that the Americains have a newspaper, 
and that cotton is two bits a pound. Now what I want 
to know is, how are my friends? What has Honore 
done ? What has Frowenfeld done ? And Palmyre, — 
and Agricole ? They hustled me away from here as if 
I had been caught trying to cut my throat. Tell me 
everything.” 

And Raoul sank the artist and bridegroom in the his- 
torian, and told him. 


CHAPTER XLVII. 


THE NEWS. 

‘‘ My cousin Honors, — well, you kin jus’ say 'e bit 
ray’ ’is ’ole fam’ly.” 

How so ? ” asked Doctor Keene, with a handker- 
chief over his face to shield his eyes from the sun. 

“ Well, — ce’t’nly ’e did ! Di’n’ ’e gave dat money to 
Auiora De Grapion ? — one ’undred five t’ousan’ dolla’ ? 
Jis’ as if to say, ' Yeh’s de money my h-uncle stole from 
you’ ’usban’.’ Hah! w’en I will swear on a stack of 
Bible’ as ’igh as yo’ head, dat Agricole win dat ’abita- 
tion fair ! — If I see it ? No, sir ; I don’t ’ave to see it 1 
I’ll swear to it ! Hah I ” 

And have she and her daughter actually got the 
money ? ” 

“ She — an’ — heh — daughtah — ac — shilly — got-’at- 
money-sir ! W’at ? Dey livin’ in de rue Royale in 
mdig-niffycQw' style on top de drug-sto’ of Proffis-or 
Frowenfel’.” 

“But how, over Frowenfeld’s, when Frowenfeld’s is 
a one-story ” 

“My dear frien’ 1 Proffis-or FrowenfeP is moove ! 
You rickleck dat big new t’ree story buildin’ w’at jus’ 
finished in de rue Royale, a lill mo’ farther up town 
from his old shop ? Well, we open dare a big std* f 
An’ listen ! You think Honore di’n’ bitrayed ’is family ? 


THE HEWS. 


36s 


Madame Nancanou an’ heh daughtah livin’ upstair’ an’ 
rissy-ving de finess soci’ty in de Province !— an’ me?— 
down-stair’ meckin’ pill’ ! You call dat justice?” 

But Doctor Keene, without waiting for this question, 
had asked one : 

“ Does Frowenfeld board with them ? ” 

Psh-sh-sh ! Board ! Dey woon board de Marquis 
of Casa-Calvo ! I don’t b’lieve dey would board Ho- 
nor6 Grandissime ! All de king’ an’ queen’ in de worl’ 
couldn’ board dare ! No, sir ! — ’Owever, you know, I 
think dey are splendid ladies. Me an’ my wife, we 
know them well. An’ Honore — I think my cousin Ho- 
nore’s a splendid gen’leman, too.” After a moment’s 
pause he resumed, with a happy sigh, “Well, I don’ 
care, I’m married. A man w’at’s married, ’e don’ care. 
But I di’n’ think Honore could ever do lak dat odder 
t’ing.” 

“ Do he and Joe Frowenfeld visit there ? ” 

“ Doctah Keene,” demanded Raoul, ignoring the 
question, “ I hask you now, plain, don’ you find dat 
mighty disgressful to do dat way, lak Honore ? ” 

“ What way ? ” 

“W’at? You dunno? You don’ yeh ’ow ’e gone 
partner’ wid a nigga ? ” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

Doctor Keene drew the handkerchief off his face and 
half lifted his feeble head. 

“ Yesseh ! ’e gone partner’ wid dat quadroon w'at 
call ’imself Honors Grandissime, seh ! ” 

The doctor dropped his head again and laid the hand- 
kerchief back on his face. 

“ What do the family say to that ? ” 

“ But w’at can dey say ? It save dem from ruin ! 


366 


THE GRANDISSIMES, 


At de sem time, me, I think it is a disgress. Not dat 
he h-use de money, but it is dat name w’at ’e give de 
h-establishmen’ — Grandissime Freres! H-only for ’is 
money we would ’ave catch’ dat quadroon gen’leman 
an’ put some tar and fedder. Grandissime Freres ! 
Agricole don’ spik to my cousin Honore no mok But 
I think dass wrong. W’at you fink, Doctor ? ” 

That evening, at candle-light, Raoul got the right arm 
of his slender, laughing wife about his neck ; but Doc- 
tor Keene tarried all night in suburb St. Jean. He 
hardly felt the moral courage to face the results of the 
last five months. Let us understand them better our 
selves. 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 


AN INDIGNANT FAMILY AND A SMASHED SHOP. 

It was indeed a fierce storm that had passed over the 
head of Honor6 Grandissime. Taken up and carried by 
it, as it seemed to him, without volition, he had felt him- 
self thrown here and there, wrenched, torn, gasping for 
moral breath, speaking the right word as if in delirium, 
doing the right deed as if by helpless instinct, and see- 
ing himself in every case, at every turn, tricked by cir- 
cumstance out of every vestige of merit. So it seemed 
to him. The long contemplated restitution was accom- 
plished. On the morning when Aurora and Clotilde 
had expected to be turned shelterless into the open air, 
they had called upon him in his private office and pre- 
sented the account of which he had put them in posses- 
sion the evening before. He had honored it on the spot. 
To the two ladies who felt their own hearts stirred almost 
to tears of gratitude, he was — as he sat before them calm, 
unmoved, handling keen-edged facts with the easy rapid- 
ity of one accustomed to use them, smiling courteously 
and collectedly, parrying their expressions of appreciation 
— to them, we say, at least to one of them, he was “ the 
prince of gentlemen.” But, at the same time, there was 
within him, unseen, a surge of emotions, leaping, lash- 
ing, whirling, yet ever hurrying onward along the hid- 
den, rugged bed of his honest intention. 


THE GRANDISSTMES. 


368 

The other restitution, which even twenty-four hours 
earlier might have seemed a pure self-sacrifice, became a 
self-rescue. The f. m. c. was the elder brother. A re- 
mark of Honore made the night they watched in the 
corridor by Doctor Keene’s door, about the younger’s 
“right to exist,” was but the echo of a conversation 
they had once had together in Europe. There they had 
practised a familiarity of intercourse which Louisiana 
would not have endured, and once, when speaking upon 
the subject of their common fatherhood, the f. m. c. , 
prone to melancholy speech, had said : 

“You are the lawful son of Numa Grandissime ; I had 
no right to be born.” 

But Honore quickly answered : 

“ By the laws of men, it may be ; but by the law of 
God’s justice, you are the lawful son, and it is I who 
should not have been born.” 

But, returned to Louisiana, accepting with the amia- 
ble, old-fashioned philosophy of conservatism, the sins 
of the community, he had forgotten the unchampioned 
rights of his passive half-brother. Contact with Frowen- 
feld had robbed him of his pleasant mental drowsiness, 
and the oft-encountered apparition of the dark sharer of 
his name had become a slow-stepping, silent embodi- 
ment of reproach. The turn of events had brought him 
face to face with the problem of restitution, and he had 
solved it. But where had he come out ? He had come 
out the beneficiary of this restitution, extricated from 
bankruptcy by an agreement which gave the f. m. c. 
only a public recognition of kinship which had always 
been his due. Bitter cup of humiliation ! 

Such was the stress within. Then there was the storm 
without. The Grandissimes were in a high state of ex- 


AN INDIGNANT TAMIL Y AND A SMASHED SHOP. 369 

citement. The news had reached them all that Honore 
had met the question of titles by selling one of their 
largest estates. It was received with wincing frowns, 
indrawn breath, and lifted feet, but without protest, and 
presently with a smile of returning confidence. 

“ Honore knew ; Honore was informed ; they had all 
authorized Honore ; and Honore, though he might have 
his odd ways and notions, picked up during that unfor- 
tunate stay abroad, might safely be trusted to stand by 
the interests of his people.” 

After the first shock, some of them even raised a 
laugh : 

“ Ha, ha, ha ! Honore would show those Yankees ! ” 

They went to his counting-room and elsewhere, in search 
of him, to smite their hands into the hands of their far- 
seeing young champion. But, as we have seen, they did 
not find him ; none dreamed of looking for him in an 
enemy’s camp (19 Bienville) or on the lonely suburban 
commons, talking to himself in the ghostly twilight ; and 
the next morning, while Aurora and Clotilde were seated 
before him in his private office, looking first at the face 
and then at the back of two mighty drafts of equal 
amount on Philadelphia, the cry of treason flew forth to 
these astounded Grandissimes, followed by the word that 
the sacred fire was gone out in the Grandissime temple 
(counting-room), that Delilahs in duplicate were carry- 
I ing off the holy treasures, and that the uncircumcised and 
unclean— even an f. m. c. — was about to be inducted into 
the Grandissime priesthood. 

Aurora and Clotilde were still there, when the various 
members of the family began to arrive and display their 
outlines in impatient shadow-play upon the glass door 
of the private office ; now one, and now another, dallied 

i6* 


370 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


with the door-knob and by and by obtruded their lifted 
hats and urgent, anxious faces half into the apartment ; 
but Honore would only glance toward them, and with a 
smile equally courteous, authoritative and fleeting, say : 

“ Good-morning, Camille” (or Charlie — or Agamem- 
non, as the case might be), I will see you later ; let me 
trouble you to close the door.” 

To add yet another strain, the two ladies, like fright- 
ened, rescued children, would cling to their deliverer. 
They wished him to become the custodian and investor 
of their wealth-. Ah, woman ! who is a tempter like 
thee ? But Honore said no, and showed them the danger 
of such a course. 

** Suppose I should die suddenly. You might have 
trouble with my executors.” 

The two beauties assented pensively; but in Aurora’s 
bosom a great throb secretly responded that as for her 
in that case, she should have no use for money — in a 
nunnery. 

“ Would not Monsieur at least consent to be their 
financial adviser ? ” 

He hemmed, commenced a sentence twice, and finally 
said : 

“You will need an agent ; some one to take full charge 
of your affairs ; some person on whose sagacity and integ- 
rity you can place the fullest dependence.” 

“ Who, for instance? ” asked Aurora. 

“ I should say, without hesitation, Professor Frowen- 
feld, the apothecary. You know his trouble of yester- 
day is quite cleared up. You had not heard? Yes. 
He is not what we call an enterprising man, but — so 
much the better. Take him all in all, I would choose 
him above all others ; if you ” 


AJ\r INDIGNANT FAMILY AND A SMASHED SHOP. 3/1 

Aurora interrupted him. There was an ill-concealed 
wildness in her eye and a slight tremor in her voice, as 
she spoke, which she had not expected to betray. The 
quick, though quiet, eye of Honore Grandissime saw it, 
and it thrilled him through. 

“ ’Sieur Grandissime, I take the risk; I wish you to 
take care of my money.” 

But, Maman,” said Clotilde, turning with a timid 
look to her mother, “if Monsieur Grandissime would 
rather not ” 

Aurora, feeling alarmed at what she had said, rose up. 
Clotilde and Honore did the same, and he said : 

“ With Professor Frowenfeld in charge of your affairs, 
I shall feel them not entirely removed from my care also. 
We are very good friends.” 

Clotilde looked at her mother. The three exchanged 
glances. The ladies signified their assent and turned to 
go, but M. Grandissime stopped them. 

“ By your leave, I will send for him. If you will be 
seated again ” 

They thanked him and resumed their seats ; he ex- 
cused himself, and passed into the counting-room and 
sent a messenger for the apothecary. 

M. Grandissime’s meeting with his kinsmen was a 
stormy one. Aurora and Clotilde heard the strife begin, 
increase, subside, rise again and decrease. They heard 
men stride heavily to and fro, they heard hands smite 
together, palms fall upon tables and fists upon desks, 
heard half-understood statement and unintelligible coun- 
ter-statement and derisive laughter ; and, in the midst 
of all, like the voice of a man who rules himself, the clear- 
noted, unimpassioned speech of Honore, sounding so lof- 
tily beautiful in the ear of Aurora that when Clotilde 


372 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


looked at her, sitting motionless with her rapt eyes lifted 
up, those eyes came down to her own with a sparkle of 
enthusiasm, and she softly said : 

“ It sounds like St. Gabriel ! ” and then blushed. 
Clotilde answered with a happy, meaning look, which 
intensified the blush, and then leaning affectionately , 
forward and holding the maman’s eyes with her own, 
she said : 

“ You have my consent.” 

“ Saucy ! ” said Aurora. Wait till I get my own ! ” 
Some of his kinsmen Honore pacified ; some he 
silenced. He invited all to withdraw their lands and | 
moneys from his charge, and some accepted the invita- ) 
tion. They spurned his parting advice to sell, and the | 
policy they then adopted, and never afterw^ard modified, S 
was that “ all or nothing” attitude which, as years rolled f 
by, bled them to penury in those famous cupping-leech- 1 
ing-and-bleeding establishments, the courts of Louisiana. I 
You may see their grandchildren, today, anywhere ^ 
within the angle of the old rues Esplanade and Rampart, ] 
holding up their heads in unspeakable poverty, their no- j 
bility kept green by unflinching self-respect, and their j 
poetic and pathetic pride revelling in ancestral, perennial j 
rebellion against common sense. | 

“ That is Agricola,” whispered Aurora, with lifted 
head and eyes dilated and askance, as one deep-chested . 
voice roared above all others. 

Agricola stormed. 

Uncle,” Aurora by and by heard Honors say, 
shall I leave my own counting-room ? ” 

At that moment Joseph Frowenfeld entered, paus- 
ing with one hand on the outer rail. No one noticed 
him but Honore, who was watching for him, and who, 


AN INDIGNANT FAMILY AND A SMASHED SHOP. 373 

by a silent motion, directed him into the private 
office. 

“ H-whe shake its dust from our feet ! ” said Agricola, 
gathering some young retainers by a sweep of his glance 
and going out down the stair in the arched way, un- 
moved by the fragrance of warm bread. On the ban- 
quette he harangued his followers. 

He said that in such times as these every lover of 
liberty should go armed ; that the age of trickery had 
come ; that by trickery Louisianians had been sold, like 
cattle, to a nation of parvenues, to be dragged before 
juries for asserting the human right of free trade or 
ridding the earth of sneaks in the pay of the goverment ; 
that laws, so-called, had been forged into thumb-screws, 
and a Congress which had bound itself to give them all 
the rights of American citizens — sorry boon ! — was pre- 
paring to slip their birthright acres from under their 
feet, and leave them hanging, a bait to the vultures of 
the Americain immigration. Yes ; the age of trickery ! 
Its apostles, he said, were even then at work among 
their fellow-citizens, warping, distorting, blasting, cor- 
rupting, poisoning the noble, unsuspecting, confiding 
Creole mind. For months the devilish work had been 
allowed, by a patient, peace-loving people to go on. 
But shall it go on forever ? (Cries of “ No ! ” “No!”) 

The smell of white blood comes on the south breeze. 
Dessalines and Christophe have recommenced their 
hellish work. Virginia, too, trembles for the safety of 
her fair mothers and daughters. We know not what is 
being plotted in the cane brakes of Louisiana. But we 
know that in the face of these things the prelates ol 
trickery are sitting in Washington allowing throats to go 
unthrottled that talked tenderly about the “negro 


374 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


slave ; we know worse : we know that mixed blood 
has asked for equal rights from a son of the Louisiana 
noblesse, and that those sacred rights have been treach- 
erously, pusillanimously surrendered into its possession. 
Why did we not rise yesterday, when the public heart 
was stirred ? The forbearance of this people would be 
absurd if it were not saintly. But the time has come 
when Louisiana must protect herself! If there is one 
here who will not strike for his lands, his rights and the 
purity of his race, let him speak ! (Cries of ‘‘We will 
rise now I “ Give us a leader I ” “ Lead the way I ” ) 

“ Kinsmen, friends,” continued Agricola, “ meet me 
at nightfall before the house of this too-longed-spared 
mulatto. Come armed. Bring a few feet of stout rope. 
By morning the gentlemen of color will know their places 
better than they do to-day ; h-whe shall understand each 
other ! H-whe shall set the negrophiles to meditating.” 

He waved them away. 

With a huzza the accumulated crowd moved off. 
Chance carried them up the rue Royale ; they sang a 
song ; they came to Frowenfeld’s. It was an Americain 
establishment ; that was against it. It was a gossiping 
place of Americain evening loungers ; that was against 
it. It was a sorcerer’s den — (we are on an ascending 
scale) ; its proprietor had refused employment to some 
there present, had refused credit to others, was an im- 
pudent condemner of the most approved Creole sins, 
had been beaten over the head only the day before ; all 
these were against it. But, worse still, the building 
was owned by the f. m. c., and unluckiest of all, Raoul 
stood in the door and some of his kinsmen in the crowd 
stopped to have a word with him. The crowd stopped. 
A nameless fellow in the throng — he was still singings 


AN INDIGNANT FAMILY AND A SMA SITED SHOP. 375 

said : Here’s the place,” and dropped two bricks through 
the glass of the show-window. Raoul, with a cry of retalia- 
tive rage, drew and lifted a pistol ; but a kinsman jerked 
it from him and three others quickly pinioned him and 
bore him off struggling, pleased to get him away unhurt. 
In ten minutes, Frowenfeld’s was a broken-windowed, 
open-doored house, full of unrecognizable rubbish that 
had escaped the torch only through a chance rumor that 
the Governor’s police were coming, and the consequent 
stampede of the mob. 

Joseph was sitting in M. Grandissime’s private office, 
in council with him and the ladies, and Aurora was just 
saying : 

Well, anny’ow, ’Sieur Frowenfel’, ad laz you con- 
sen’ ! ” and gathering her veil from her lap, when Raoul 
bust in, all sweat and rage. 

** ’Sieur Frowenfel’, we ruin’ ! Ow pharmacie knock 
all in pieces ! My pig-shoe is los’ ! ” 

He dropped into a chair and burst into tears. 

Shall we never learn to withhold our tears until we 
are sure of our trouble ? Raoul little knew the joy in 
store for him. ’Polyte, it transpired the next day, had 
rushed in after the first volley of missiles, and while 
others were gleefully making off with jars of asafoetida 
and decanters of distilled water, lifted in his arms and 
bore away unharmed Louisiana ” firmly refusing to 
the last to enter the Union. It may not be premature 
to add that about four weeks later Honore Grandissime, 
upon Raoul’s announcement that he was betrothed,” 
purchased this painting and presented it to a club of 
natural connoisseurs. 


CHAPTER XLIX. 


OVER THE NEW STORE. 

The accident of the ladies Nancanou making their 
new home over Frowenfeld’s drug-store, occurred in the 
following rather amusing way. It chanced that the build- 
ing was about completed at the time that the apothecary’s 
stock in trade was destroyed ; Frowenfeld leased the lower 
floor. Honore Grandissime f. m. c. was the owner. He 
being concealed from his enemies, Joseph treated with 
that person’s inadequately remunerated employe. In 
those days, as still in the old French Quarter, it was not 
uncommon for persons, even of wealth, to make their 
homes over stores, and buildings were constructed with 
a view to their partition in this way. Hence, in Chartres 
and Decatur streets, to-day — and in the cross-streets 
between, so many store-buildings with balconies, dormer 
windows, and sometimes even belvideres. This new 
building caught the eye and fancy of Aurora and Clotilde. 
The apartments for the store were entirely isolated. 
Through a large porte-cochere y opening upon the ban- 
quette immediately beside and abreast of the store-front, 
one entered a high, covered carriage-way with a tesse- 
lated pavement and green plastered walls, and reached, — 
just where this way (corridor, the Creoles always called 
it) opened into a sunny court surrounded with narrow 
parterres, — a broad stairway leading to a hall over the 


OF£J^ THE NEW S'l ORE. 


377 


•* corridor ” and to the drawing-rooms over the store. 
They liked it ! Aurora would find out at once what 
sort of an establishment was likely to be opened below, 
and if that proved unexceptionable she would lease the 
upper part without more ado. 

Next day she said : 

“ Clotilde, thou beautiful, I have signed the lease ! ” 

“Then the store below is to be occupied by a — 
what ? 

Guess ! " 

“ Ah ! ” 

“ Guess a pharmacien ! ” 

Clotilde’s lips parted, she was going to smile, when 
her thought changed and she blushed offendedly. 

‘‘Not ” 

“ ’Sieur Frowenf ah, ha, ha, ha ! — ha^ ha^ ha ! 

Clotilde burst into tears. 

Still they moved in — it was written in the bond ; and 
so did the apothecary ; and probably two sensible young 
lovers never before nor since behaved with such abject 
fear of each other — for a time. Later, and after much 
oft-repeated good advice given to each separately and 
to both together, Honors Grandissime persuaded them 
that Clotilde could make excellent use of a portion of 
her means by re-enforcing Frowenfeld’s very slender 
stock and well filling his rather empty-looking store, and 
so they signed regular articles of copartnership, blushing 
frightfully. 

Frowenfeld became a visitor, Honore not ; once Honors 
had seen the ladies’ moneys satisfactorily invested, he kept 
aloof. It is pleasant here to remark that neither Aurora 
nor Clotilde made any waste of their sudden acquisitions ; 
they furnished their rooms with much beauty at moder 


378 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


ate cost, and their salon with artistic, not extravagant, 
elegance, and, for the sake of greater propriety, em- 
ployed a decayed lady as housekeeper ; but, being dis- 
creet in all other directions, they agreed upon one bold 
outlay — a volante. 

Almost any afternoon you might have seen this 
vehicle on the Terre aux Boeuf, or Bayou, or Tchoupi- 
toulas Road ; and because of the brilliant beauty of its 
occupants it became known from all other volantes as 
the meteor.” 

Frowenfeld’s visits were not infrequent; he insisted 
on Clotilde’s knowing just what was being done with her 
money. Without indulging ourselves in the pleasure 
of contemplating his continued mental unfolding, we 
may say that his growth became more rapid in this 
season of universal expansion ; love had entered into 
his still compacted soul like a cupid into a rose, and was 
crowding it wide open. However, as yet, it had not 
made him brave. Aurora used to slip out of the draw- 
ing-room, and in some secluded nook of the hall throw 
up her clasped hands and go through all the motions 
of screaming merriment. 

‘‘The little fool! ” — it was of her own daughter she 
whispered this complimentary remark — “ the little fool 
is afraid of the fish ! ” 

“You!” she said to Clotilde, one evening after Jo- 
seph had gone, “ you call yourself a Creole girl ! ” 

But she expected too much. Nothing so terrorizes a 
blushing girl as a blushing man. And then — though 
they did sometimes digress — Clotilde and her partner 
met to “ talk business ” in a purely literal sense. 

Aurora, after a time, had taken her money into her 
own keeping. 


OFE/i THE NEW STORE. 


379 

“You mighd gid robb’ ag’in, you know, ’Sieur Frow- 
j enfelV’ she said. 

I But when he mentioned Clotilde’s fortune as subject 
1 to the same contingency, Aurora replied : 
j “ Ah ! bud Clotilde mighd gid robb’ ! ” 

I But for all the exuberance of Aurora’s spirits, there 
1 was a cloud in her sky. Indeed, we know it is only 
when clouds are in the sky that we get the rosiest tints ; 
1 and so it was with Aurora. One night, when she had 
( heard the wicket in the porte-cochere shut behind three 
evening callers, one of whom she had rejected a week 
before, another of whom she expected to dispose of simi- 
larly, and the last of whom was Joseph Frowenfeld, she 
began such a merry raillery at Clotilde and such a 
hilarious ridicule of the “Professor” that Clotilde would 
have wept again had not Aurora, all at once, in the 
midst of a laugh, dropped her face in her hands and run 
from the room in tears. It is one of the penalties we 
pay for being joyous, that nobody thinks us capable of 
care or the victim of trouble until, in some moment of 
extraordinary expansion, our bubble of gayety bursts. 
Aurora had been crying of nights. Even that same 
night, Clotilde awoke, opened her eyes and beheld her 
mother risen from the pillow and sitting upright in the 
bed beside her ; the moon, shining brightly through 
the bars, revealed with distinctness her head slightly 
drooped, her face again in her hands and the dark folds 
of her hair falling about her shoulders, half-concealing 
the richly embroidered bosom of her snowy gown, and 
coiling in continuous abundance about her waist and on 
the slight summer covering of the bed. Before her on 
the sheet lay a white paper. Clotilde did not try to de- 
cipher the writing on it ; she knew, at sight, the slip 


380 


THE GRANDISSIMES, 


that had fallen from the statement of account on the 
evening of the ninth of March. Aurora withdrew her 
hands from her face — Clotilde shut her eyes ; she heard 
Aurora put the paper in her bosom. 

Clotilde,” she said, very softly. 

Maman,” the daughter replied, opening her eyes, 
reached up her arms and drew the dear head down. 

Clotilde, once upon a time I woke this way, and, 
while you were asleep, left the bed and made a vow to 
Monsieur Danny. Oh ! it was a sin ! But I cannot do 
those things now ; I have been frightened ever since. I 
shall never do so any more. I shall never commit an- 
other sin as long as I live ! ” 

Their lips met fervently. 

“ My sweet sweet,” whispered Clotilde, you looked 
so beautiful sitting up with the moonlight all around 
you ! ” 

“ Clotilde, my beautiful daughter,” said Aurora, push- 
ing her bedmate from her and pretending to repress a 
smile, “ I tell you now, because you don’t know, and it 
is my duty as your mother to tell you — the meanest 
wickedness a woman can do in all this bad, bad world 
is to look ugly in bed ! ” 

Clotilde answered nothing, and Aurora dropped her 
outstretched arms, turned away with an involuntary, 
tremulous sigh, and after two or three hours of patient 
wakefulness, fell asleep. 

But at daybreak next morning, he that wrote the pa- 
per had not closed his eyes. 


CHAPTER L. 


A PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE. 

There was always some flutter among Frowenfeld^s 
employes when he was asked for, and this time it was 
the more pronounced because he was sought by a house- 
maid from the upper floor. It was hard for these two or 
three young Ariels to keep their Creole feet to the 
ground when it was presently revealed to their sharp 
ears that the “ proffis-or ” was requested to come up- 
stairs. 

The new store was an extremely neat, bright, and 
well-ordered establishment ; yet to ascend into the 
drawing-rooms seemed to the apothecary like going from 
the hold of one of those smart old packet-ships of his 
day into the cabin. Aurora came forward, with the 
slippers of a Cinderella twinkling at the edge of her 
robe. It seemed unfit that the floor under them should 
not be clouds. 

** Proffis-or Frowenfel’, good-day ! Teg a cha’.” She 
laughed. It was the pure joy of existence. “ You’s 
well? You lookin’ verrie well ! Halways bizzie ? You 
fine dad agriz wid you’ healt’, ’Sieur Frowenfel’ ? Yes? 
Ha, ha, ha ! ” She suddenly leaned toward him across 
the arm of her chair, with an earnest face. “’Sieur 
Frowenfel’, Palmyre wand see you. You don’ wan’ 
come ad ’er ’ouse, eh ? — an’ you don’ wan’ her to come 


3B2 


THE GRANDISSIMES, 


ad yo’ bureau. You know, *Sieur Frowenfer, she dres 
the hair of Clotilde an’ mieself. So w’en she tell me 
dad, I juz say, ‘ Palmyre, 1 will sen’ for Proffis-or Frow- 
enfel’ to come yeh ; but I don’ thing ’e cornin’.’ You 
know, I din’ wan’ you to ’ave dad troub’ ; but Clotilde 
— ha, ha, ha ! Clotilde is sudge a foolish — she nevva 
thing of dad troub’ to you — she say she thing you was 
too kine-’arted to call dad troub’ — ha, ha, ha ! So an- 
ny’ow we sen’ for you, eh ! ” 

Frowenfeld said he was glad they had done so, where- 
upon Aurora rose lightly, saying : 

“ I go an’ sen’ her.” She started away, but turned 
back to add: “You know, ’Sieur Frowenfel’, she say 
she cann’ truz nobody bud y’u.” She ended with a low, 
melodious laugh, bending her joyous eyes upon the 
apothecary with her head dropped to one side in a way 
to move a heart of flint. 

She turned and passed through a door, and by the 
same way Palmyre entered. The philosophe came for- 
ward noiselessly and with a subdued expression, differ- 
ent from any Frowenfeld had ever before seen. At the 
first sight of her a thrill of disrelish ran through him of 
which he was instantly ashamed ; as she came nearer he 
met her with a deferential bow and the silent tender of 
a chair. She sat down, and, after a moment’s pause, 
handed him a sealed letter. 

He turned it over twice, recognized the handwriting, 
felt the disrelish return, and said : 

“ This is addressed to yourself.” 

She bowed. 

“ Do you know who wrote it ? ” he asked 

She bowed again. 

“ Oui^ MichL"' 


J PROPOSAL OF marriage. 383 

“ You wish me to open it ? I cannot read French.” 

She seemed to have some explanation to offer, but 
could not command the necessary English ; however, 
with the aid of Frowenfeld’s limited guessing powers, 
she made him understand that the bearer of the letter to 
her had brought word from the writer that it was writ- 
ten in English purposely that M. Frowenfeld — the only 
person he was willing should see it — might read it. 
Frowenfeld broke the seal and ran his eye over the writ- 
ing, but remained silent. 

The woman stirred, as if to say '*Well?” But he 
hesitated. 

Palmyre,” he suddenly said, with a slight, dissuasive 
smile, “ it would be a profanation for me to read this.” 

She bowed to signify that she caught his meaning, 
then raised her elbows with an expression of dubiety, 
and said ; 

“ ’E hask you ” 

“ Yes,” murmured the apothecary. He shook his 
head as if to protest to himself, and read in a low but 
audible voice : 

“ Star of my soul, I approach to die. It is not for me possible to live 
without Palmyre. Long time have I so done, but now, cut off from to 
see thee, by imprisonment, as it may be called, love is starving to death. 
Oh, have pity on the faithful heart which, since ten years, change not, but 
forget heaven and earth for you. Now in the peril of the life, hidden 
away, that absence from the sight of you make his seclusion the more worse 
':han death. Halas ! I pine ! Not other ten years of despair can I com- 
mence. Accept this love. If so I will live for you, but if to the contraire, 

I must die for you. Is there anything at all what I will not give or even 
do if Palmyre will be my wife ? Ah, no, far otherwise, there is noth- 
ing ! ” 

Frowenfeld looked over the top of the letter. Pal- 
myre sat with her eyes cast down, slowly shaking her 


THE GRANDTSSIMES, 


384 

head. He returned his glance to the page, colormg 
somewhat with annoyance at being made a proposing 
medium. 

'‘The English is very faulty here,” he said, without 
looking up. “ He mentions Bras-Coupd.” Palmyre 
started and turned toward him ; but he went on without 
lifting his eyes. “ He speaks of your old pride and af- 
fection toward him as one who with your aid might 
have been a leader and deliverer of his people.” Frow- 
enfeld looked up. “ Do you under ” 

“ Allez, said she, leaning forward, her great 

eyes fixed on the apothecary and her face full of dis- 
tress. “ Mo comprend bien'' 

“ He asks you to let him be to you in the place of 
Bras-Coupe.” 

The eyes of the philosophey probably for the first 
time since the death of the giant, lost their pride. They 
gazed upon Frowenfeld with almost piteousness ; but 
she compressed her lips and again slowly shook her 
head. 

“You see,” said Frowenfeld, suddenly feeling a new 
interest, “ he understands their wants. He knows their 
wrongs. He is acquainted with laws and men. He 
could speak for them. It would not be insurrection — 
it would be advocacy. He would give his time, his 
pen, his speech, his means to get them justice — to get 
them their rights.” 

She hushed the over-zealous advocate with a sad 
and bitter smile and essayed to speak, studied as if for 
English words, and, suddenly abandoning that at- 
tempt, said, with ill-concealed scorn and in the Creole 
patois : 

“ What is all that ? What I want is vengeance ! ” 


A PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE. 385 

** I will finish reading,” said Frowenfeld, quickly, 
not caring to understand the passionate speech. 

“ Ab, Palmyre ! Palmyre 1 What you love and hope to love you be- 
cause his heart keep itself free, he is loving another ! ” 

ct ga, Mich^f ” 

Frowenfeld was loth to repeat. She had understood, 
as her face showed ; but she dared not believe. He 
made it shorter : 

He means that Honors Grandissime loves another 
woman.” 

’Tis a lie ! ” she exclaimed, a better command of 
English coming with the momentary loss of restraint. 

The apothecary thought a moment and then decided 
to speak. 

I do not think so,” he quietly said. 

’Ow you know dat ? ” 

She, too, spoke quietly, but under a fearful strain. 
She had thrown herself forward, but, as she spoke, 
forced herself back into her seat. 

He told me so himself.” 

The tall figure of Palmyre rose slowly and silently 
from her chair, her eyes lifted up and her lips moving 
noiselessly. She seemed to have lost all knowledge of 
place or of human presence. She walked down the 
drawing-room quite to its curtained windows and there 
stopped, her face turned away and her hand laid with a 
visible tension on the back of a chair. She remained 
so long that Frowenfeld had begun to think of leav- 
ing her so, when she turned and came back. Her form 
was erect, her step firm and nerved, her lips set to- 
gether and her hands dropped easily at her side ; but 
when she came close up before the apothecary she was 
17 


386 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


trembling. For a moment she seemed speechless, and 
then, while her eyes gleamed with passion, she said, in 
a cold, clear tone, and in her native patois : 

^^Very well; if I cannot love I can have my re- 
venge.” She took the letter from him and bowed her 
thanks, still adding, in the same tongue, ‘‘ There is now 
no longer anything to prevent.” 

The apothecary understood the dark speech. She 
meant that, with no hope of Honore’s love, there was 
no restraining motive to withhold her from wreaking 
what vengeance she could upon Agricola. But he saw 
the folly of a debate. 

That is all I can do ? ” asked he. 

Oui, merci^ she said; then she added, in 

perfect English, but that is not all / can do,” and then 
— laughed. 

The apothecary had already turned to go, and the 
laugh was a low one ; but it chilled his blood. He was 
glad to get back to his employments. 


CHAPTER LI. 


BUSINESS CHANGES. 

We have now recorded some of the events which 
characterized the five months during which Doctor 
Keene had been vainly seeking to recover his health in 
the West Indies. 

“Is Mr. Frowenfeld in?” he asked, walking very 
slowly, and with a cane, into the new drug-store on the 
morning of his return to the city. 

“ If Professo’ Frowenfel’s in?” replied a young man 
in shirt-sleeves, speaking rapidly, slapping a paper 
package which he had just tied, and sliding it smartly 
down the counter. “ No, seh.” 

A quick step behind the doctor caused him to turn ; 
Raoul was just entering, with a bright look of business 
on his face, taking his coat off as he came. 

“ Docta Keene! Teck a chair. ’Ow you like de 
noo sto’ ? See ? Fo’ counters ! T’ree clerk’ ! De 
whole interieure paint undre mie h-own direction ! If 
dat is not a beautiful 1 eh ? Look at dat sign.” 

He pointed to some lettering in harmonious colors 
near the ceiling at the farther end of the house. The 
doctor looked and read : 

MANDARIN, AG’T, APOTHECARY. 

“ Why not Frowenfeld ? ” he asked. 

Raoul shrugged. 


388 


THE GRANDISSIMES, 


Tis better dis way.” 

That was his explanation. 

‘‘Not the De Brahmin Mandarin who was Honors *s 
manager ? ” 

“Yes. Honord wasn’ able to kip ’im no long-er. 
Honore isn’ so rich lak befo’.” 

“ And Mandarin is really in charge here ? ” 

“ Oh, yes. Profess-or Frowenfel’ all de time at de 
cle corner, w’ere ’e con^Anwo. to keep ’is private room 
and h-use de ole shop fo’ ware’ouse. ’E h-only come 
yeh w’en Mandarin cann’ git ’long widout ’im.” 

“ What does he do there ? He s not rich.” 

Raoul bent down toward the doctor’s chair and whis- 
pered the dark secret : 

“ Studyin’ ! ” 

Doctor Keene went out. 

Everything seemed changed to the returned wanderer. 
Poor man ! The changes were very slight save in their 
altered relation to him. To one broken in health, and 
still more to one with broken heart, old scenes fall upon 
the sight in broken rays. A sort of vague alienation 
seemed to the little doctor to come like a film over the 
long-familiar vistas of the town where he had once 
walked in the vigor and complacency of strength and 
distinction. This was not the same New Orleans. The 
people he met on the street were more or less familiar 
to his memory, but many that should have recognized 
him failed to do so, and others were made to notice him 
rather by his cough than by his face. Some did not 
know he had been away. It made him cross. 

He had walked slowly down beyond the old Fro wen- 
feld corner and had just crossed the street to avoid the 
dust of a building which was being torn down to make 


IfC/SINESS CHANGES. 38(j 

place for a new one, when he saw coming toward him, 
unconscious of his proximity, Joseph Frowenfeld. 

“Doctor Keene ! ” said Frowenfeld, with almost the 
enthusiam of Raoul. 

The doctor was very much quieter. 

“Hello, Joe.” 

They went back to the new drug-store, sat down in a 
pleasant little rear corner enclosed by a railing and cur- 
tains, and talked. 

“And did the trip prove of no advantage to you ? ” 

“ You see. But never mind me; tell me about Ho- 
nor^ ; how does that row with his family progress? ” 

“ It still continues ; the most of his people hold ideas 
of justice and prerogative that run parallel with family 
and party lines, lines of caste, of custom and the like ; 
they have imparted their bad feeling against him to the 
community at large ; very easy to do just now, for the 
election for President of the States comes on in the fall, 
and though we in Louisiana have little or nothing to do 
with it ; the people are feverish.” 

“ The country’s chill day,” said Doctor Keene ; 
“ dumb chill, hot fever.” 

“ The excitement is intense,” said Frowenfeld. “It 
seems we are not to be granted suffrage yet ; but the 
Creoles have a way of casting votes in their mind. For 
example, they have voted Honors Grandissime a traitor ; 
they have voted me an encumbrance ; I hear one of 
them casting that vote now.” 

Some one near the front of the store was talking ex- 
citedly with Raoul : 

“ An’ — an’ — an’ w’at are the consequence ? The com 
sequence are that we smash his shop for him an* ’e ’ave 
to make a noo-start with a Creole partner’s money an 


390 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


put ’is sto’ in charge of Creole’ ! If I know he is yo' 
frien’ ? Yesseh ! Valuable citizen ? An’ w’at we care 
for valuable citizen ? Let him be valuable if he want» 
it keep’ him from gettin’ the neck broke ; but — he mus’- 
tek-kyeh — ’ow — he — talk’ ! He-mus’-tek-kyeh ’ow he 
stir the ’ot blood of Louisyanna ! ” 

He is perfectly right,” said the little doctor, in his 
husky undertone ; “ neither you nor Honore is a bit 
sound, and I shouldn’t wonder if they would hang you 
both, yet ; and as for that darkey who has had the im- 
pudence to try to make a commercial white gentleman 
of himself — it may not be I that ought to say it, but — he 
will get his deserts — sure ! ” 

** There are a great many Americans that think as you 
do,” said Frowenfeld, quietly. 

But,” said the little doctor, “what did that fellow 
mean by your Creole partner ? Mandarin is in charge 
of your store, but he is not your partner, is he ? Have 
you one ? ” 

“ A silent one,” said the apothecary. 

“ So silent as to be none of my business?” 

“No.” 

“ Well, who is it, then ? ” 

“ It is Mademoiselle Nancanou.” 

“ Your partner in business ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ Well, Joseph Frowenfeld, ” 

The insinuation conveyed in the doctor’s manner was 
very trying, but Joseph merely reddened. 

“ Purely business, I suppose,” presently said the doc- 
tor, with a ghastly ironical smile. “ Does the ar- 
rangem-^ his utterance failed him — “ does it end 
there.” 


BUSINESS CHANGES. 


391 


** It ends there.” 

“ And you don’t see that it ought either not to have 
begun, or else ought not to have ended there ?” 

Frowenfeld blushed angrily. The doctor asked: 

** And who takes care of Aurora’s money ? ” 

“ Herself.” 

Exclusively ? ” 

They both smiled more good-naturedly. 

Exclusively.” 

“ She’s a coon;” and the little doctor rose up and 
crawled away, ostensibly to see another friend, but really 
to drag himself into his bed-chamber and lock himself 
in. The next day — the yellow fever was bad again — he 
resumed the practice of his profession. 

** ’Twill be a sort of decent suicide without the ele- 
ment of pusillanimity,” he thought to himself. 


CHAPTER LII. 


LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING. 

When Honor(^ Grandissime heard that Doctor Keene 
had returned to the city in a very feeble state of health, 
he rose at once from the desk where he was sitting and 
went to see him ; but it was on that morning when the 
doctor was sitting and talking with Joseph, and Honore 
found his chamber door locked. Doctor Keene called 
twice, within the following two days, upon Honore at 
his counting-room ; but on both occasions Honore’s 
chair was empty. So it was several days before they 
met. But one hot morning in the latter part of August, 
— the August days were hotter before the cypress forest 
was cut down between the city and the lake than they 
are now, — as Doctor Keene stood in the middle of his 
room breathing distressedly after a sad fit of coughing, 
and looking toward one of his windows whose closed 
^ash he longed to see opened, Honore knocked at the 
door. 

“Well, come in!” said the fretful invalid. “Why, 
Honord, — well, it serves you right for stopping to knock. 
Sit down.” 

Each took a hasty, scrutinizing glance at the other; 
and, after a pause. Doctor Keene said : 

“ Honors, you are pretty badly stove.” 

M. Grandissime smiled. 


LOVE LIES ^l-BLEED/ATG. 393 

“ Do you think so, Doctor? I will be more compli- 
mentary to you ; you might look more sick.” 

“ Oh, I have resumed my trade,” replied Doctor 
Keene. 

“ So I have heard ; but Charlie, that is all in favor 
of the people who want a skilful and advanced physi- 
cian and do not mind killing him ; I should advise you 
not to do it.” 

'‘You mean” (the incorrigible little doctor smiled 
cynically) “ if I should ask your advice. I am going to 
get well, Honor6.” 

His visitor shrugged. 

“ So much the better. I do confess I am tempted to 
make use of you in your official capacity, right now. 
Do you feel strong enough to go with me in your gig 
a little way ? ” 

“ A professional call ? ” 

“ Yes, and a difficult case ; also a confidential one.” 

“ Ah ! confidential ! ” said the little man, in his pain- 
ful, husky irony. “ You want to get me into the sort of 
scrape I got our ‘ professor ’ into, eh ? ” 

“ Possibly a worse one,” replied the amiable Creole. 

“ And I must be mum, eh ? ” 

“ I would prefer.” 

, “ Shall I need any instruments ? No ? ” — with a shade 
of disappointment on his face. 

He pulled a bell-rope and ordered his gig to the street 
door. 

“ How are affairs about town ? ” he asked, as he made 
some slight preparation for the street. 

“ Excitement continues. Just as I came along, a pri- 
vate difficulty between a Creole and an Am6ricain drew 
instantly half the street together to take sides strictly 
17* 


394 


THE GRANDISSIMES, 


according to belongings and without asking a question. 
My-de’-seh, we are having, as Frowenfeld says, a war 
of human acids and alkalies.” 

They descended and drove away. At the first corner 
the lad who drove turned, by Honore’s direction, toward 
the rue Dauphine, entered it, passed down it to the rue 
Dumaine, turned into this toward the river again and 
entered the rue Conde. The route was circuitous. 
They stopped at the carriage-door of a large brick house. 
The wicket was opened by Clemence. They alighted 
without driving in. 

“ Hey, old witch,” said the doctor, with mock sever- 
ity ; “ not hung yet ? ” 

The houses of any pretension to comfortable spacious- 
ness in the closely built parts of the town were all of the 
one, general, Spanish-American plan. Honore led the 
doctor through the cool, high, tesselated carriage-hall, 
on one side of which were the drawing-rooms, closed 
and darkened. They turned at the bottom, ascended a 
broad, iron-railed staircase to the floor above, and halted 
before the open half of a glazed double door with a 
clumsy iron latch. It was the entrance to two spacious 
chambers, which were thrown into one by folded 
doors. 

The doctor made a low, indrawn whistle and raised his 
eyebrows — the rooms were so sumptuously furnished ; 
immovable largeness and heaviness, lofty sobriety, abun- 
dance of finely wrought brass mounting, motionless rich- 
ness of upholstery, much silent twinkle of pendulous 
crystal, a soft semi-obscurity — such were the character- 
istics. The long windows of the farther apartment could 
be seen to open over the street, and the air from behind, 
coming in over a green mass of fig-trees that stood in 


LOFE LIES A-BLEEDING, 395 

the paved court below, moved through the rooms, mak- 
ing them cool and cavernous. 

You don’t call this a hiding-place, do you — in his 
own bed-chamber ? ” the doctor whispered. 

“It is necessary, now, only to keep out of sight,’* 
softly answered Honor6. “Agricole and some others 
ransacked this house one night last March — the day I 
announced the new firm ; but of course, then, he was not 
here. ” 

They entered, and the figure of Honor^ Grandissime, 
f. m. c., came into view in the centre of the farther room, 
reclining in an attitude of extreme languor on a low 
couch, whither he had come from the high bed near by, 
as the impression of his form among its pillows showed. 
He turned upon the two visitors his slow, melancholy 
eyes, and, without an attempt to rise or speak, indicated, 
by a feeble motion of the hand, an invitation to be 
seated. 

“ Good-morning,” said Doctor Keene, selecting alight 
chair and drawing it close to the side of the couch. 

The patient before him was emaciated. The limp and 
bloodless hand, which had not responded to the doc- 
tor’s friendly pressure but sank idly back upon the edge 
of the couch, was cool and moist, and its nails slightly 
blue. 

“ Lie still,” said the doctor, reassuringly, as the ren- 
tier began to lift the one knee and slippered foot which 
was drawn up on the couch and the hand which hung out 
of sight across a large, linen-covered cushion. 

By pleasant talk that seemed all chat, the physician 
soon acquainted himself with the case before him. It 
v'as a very plain one. By and by he rubbed his face and 
red curls and suddenly said : 


396 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


“ You will not take my prescription.” 

The f. m. c. did not say yes or no. 

Still,” — the doctor turned sidewise in his chair, as 
was his wont, and, as he spoke, allowed the corners of 
his mouth to take that little satirical downward pull 
which his friends disliked, — I’ll do my duty. I’ll give 
Honore the details as to diet ; no physic ; but my pre- 
scription to you is. Get up and get out. Never mind 
the risk of rough handling ; they can but kill you, and 
you will die anyhow if you stay here.” He rose. 
“I’ll send you a chalybeate tonic; or — I will leave it 
at Frowenfeld’s to-morrow morning, and you can call 
there and get it. It will give you an object for going 
out.” 

The two visitors presently said adieu and retired to- 
gether. Reaching the bottom of the stairs in the car- 
riage “ corridor,” they turned in a direction opposite to 
the entrance and took chairs in a cool nook of the paved 
court, at a small table where the hospitality of Clemence 
had placed glasses of lemonade. 

“ No,” said the doctor, as they sat down, “ there is, 
as yet, no incurable organic derangement ; a little heart 
trouble easily removed ; still your — your patient ” 

“ My half-brother,” said Honore. 

“ Your patient,” said Doctor Keene, “is an emphatic 
‘ yes ’ to the question the girls sometimes ask us doc- 
tors — ' Does love ever kill ? ’ It will kill him soon, if 
you do not get him to rouse up. There is absolutely 
nothing the matter with him but his unrequited love.” 

“ Fortunately, the most of us,” said Honore, with 
something of the doctor’s smile, “do not love hard 
enough to be killed by it.” 

“ Very few.” The doctor paused, and his blue eyes 


LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING. 


397 


distended in reverie, gazed upon the glass which he was 
slowly turning around with his attenuated fingers as it 
stood on the board, while he added : “ However, one 
may love as hopelessly and harder than that man up- 
stairs, and yet not die.” 

“There is comfort in that — to those who must live,” 
said Honor6, with gentle gravity. 

“ Yes,” said the other, still toying with his glass. 

He slowly lifted his glance, and the eyes of the two 
men met and remained steadfastly fixed each upon 
each. 

“ You’ve got it bad,” said Doctor Keene, mechani- 
cally. 

“ And you ? ” retorted the Creole. 

“ It isn’t going to kill me.” 

“ It has not killed me. And,” added M. Grandissime, 
as they passed through the carriage-way toward the 
street, “ while I keep in mind the numberless other sor- 
rows of life, the burials of wives and sons and daugh- 
ters, the agonies and desolations, I shall never die of 
love, my-de’-seh, for very shame’s sake.” 

This was much sentiment to risk within Doctor Keene’s 
reach ; but he took no advantage of it. 

“ Honore,” said he, as they joined hands on the ban- 
quette beside the doctor’s gig, to say good-day, “if you 
think there’s a chance for you, why stickle upon such 
fine-drawn points as I reckon you are making ? Why 
sir, as I understand it, this is the only weak spot your 
action has shown ; you have taken an inoculation of 
Quixotic conscience from our transcendental apothecary 
and perpetrated a lot of heroic behavior that would have 
done honor to four-and-twenty Brutuses ; and now that 
you have a chance to do something easy and human, you 


39S 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


shiver and shrink at the ‘ looks o’ the thing.’ Why, 
what do you care ” 

“ Hush ! ” said Honors ; ‘‘do you suppose I have not 
temptation enough already ? ” 

He began to move away. 

“ Honore,” said the doctor, following him a step, “ I 
couldn’t have made a mistake — it’s the little Monk, — it’s 
Aurora, isn’t it ? ” 

Honor6 nodded, then faced his friend more directly, 
with a sudden new thought. 

But, Doctor, why not take your own advice? I 
know not how you are prevented ; you have as good a 
right as Frowenfeld.” 

“It wouldn’t be honest,” said the doctor; “it 
wouldn’t be the straight up and down manly thing.” 

“ Why not ? ” 

The doctor stepped into his gig 

** Not till I feel all right here'' 


(In his chest.) 


CHAPTER LIII. 


FROWENFELD AT THE GRANDISSIME MANSION. 

One afternoon — it seems to have been some time in 
June, and consequently earlier than Doctor Keene’s re- 
turn — the Grandissimes were set all a-tremble with vex- 
ation by the discovery that another of their number had, 
to use Agricola’s expression, “gone over to the enemy,” 
— a phrase first applied by him to Honore. 

“What do you intend to convey by that term?” 
Frowenfeld had asked on that earlier occasion. 

“ Gone over to the enemy means, my son, gone over 
to the enemy I ” replied Agricola. “ It implies affilia- 
tion with Am^ricains in matters of business and of gov- 
ernment ! It implies the exchange of social amenities 
with a race of upstarts ! It implies a craven consent to 
submit the sacredest prejudices of our fathers to the 
new-fangled measuring-rods of pert, imported theories 
upon moral and political progress ! It implies a listen- 
ing to, and reasoning with, the condemners of some of 
our most time-honored and respectable practices ! Rea- 
soning with ? N-a-hay ! but Honor6 has positively sat 
down and eaten with them ! What ? — and h walked out 
into the stre-heet with them, arm in arm ! It implies in 
his case an act — two separate and distinct acts — so base 
that — that — I simply do not understand them ! H-you 
know, Professor Frowenfeld, what he has done ! You 


400 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


know how ignominiously he has surrendered the key of 
a moral position which for the honor of the Grandissime- 
Fusilier name we have felt it necessary to hold against 

our hereditary enemies ! And — you — know ” here 

Agricola actually dropped all artificiality and spoke from 
the depths of his feelings, without figure — *‘h-h-he has 
joined himself in business h-with a man of negro blood ! 
What can we do ? What can we say ? It is Honore 
Grandissime. We can only say, ' Farewell ! -He is gone 
over to the enemy.’ ” 

The new cause of exasperation was the defection of 
Raoul Innerarity. Raoul had, somewhat from a dis- 
tance, contemplated such part as he could understand 
of Joseph Frowenfeld’s character with ever-broadening 
admiration. We know how devoted he became to the 
interests and fame of “ Frowenfeld’s.” It was in April 
he had married. Not to divide his generous heart he 
took rooms opposite the drug-store, resolved that 
“ Frowenfeld’s ” should be not only the latest closed but 
the earliest opened of all the pharmacies in New Orleans. 

This, it is true, was allowable. Not many weeks af- 
terward his bride fell suddenly and seriously ill. The 
overflowing souls of Aurora and Clotilde could not be 
so near to trouble and not know it, and before Raoul 
was nearly enough recovered from the shock of this 
peril to remember that he was a Grandissime, these last 
two of the De Grapions had hastened across the street 
to the small, white-walled sick-room and filled it as full 
of universal human love as the cup of a magnolia is full 
of perfume. Madame Innerarity recovered. A warm 
affection was all she and her husband could pay such 
ministration in, and this they paid bountifully ; the four 
became friends. The little madame found herself drawn 


FROWENFELD AT THE GRANDISSIME MANSION. 401 

most toward Clotilde ; to her she opened her heart — and 
her wardrobe, and showed her all her beautiful new 
under-clothing. Clotilde, Raoul found to be, for him, 
rather — what shall we say ? — starry, starrily inaccessible ; 
but Aurora was emphatically after his liking ; he was 
delighted with Aurora. He told her in confidence that 

Profess-or Frowenfel’ ” was the best man in the world ; 
but she boldly said, taking pains to speak with a tear 
and a half of genuine gratitude, — Egcep’ Monsieur 
Honore Grandissime,” and he assented, at first with 
hesitation and then with ardor. The four formed a 
group of their own ; and it is not certain that this was 
not the very first specimen ever produced in the Cres- 
cent City of that social variety of New Orleans life now 
distinguished as Uptown Creoles. 

Almost the first thing acquired by Raoul in the camp 
of the enemy was a certain Aurorean audacity ; and on 
the afternoon to which we allude, having told Frowen- 
feld a rousing fib to the effect that the multitudinous in- 
mates of the maternal Grandissime mansion had insisted 
on his bringing his esteemed employer to see them, he 
and his bride had the hardihood to present him on the 
front veranda. 

The straightforward Frowenfeld was much pleased 
with his reception. It was not possible for such as he to 
guess the ire with which his presence was secretly re- 
garded. New Orleans, let us say once more, was small, 
and the apothecary of the rue Royale locally famed ; 
and what with curiosity and that innate politeness which 
it is the Creole’s boast that he cannot mortify, the 
veranda, about the- top of the great front stair, was well 
crowded with people of both sexes and all ages. It 
would be most pleasant to tarry once more in descrip 


402 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


tion of this gathering of nobility and beauty ; to recount 
the points of Creole loveliness in midsummer dress ; to 
tell in particular of one and another eye-kindling face, 
form, manner, wit ; to define the subtle qualities of Cre- 
ole air and sky and scene, or the yet more delicate 
graces that characterize the music of Creole voice and 
speech and the light of Creole eyes ; to set forth the 
gracious, unaccentuated dignity of the matrons and the 
ravishing archness of their daughters. To Frowenfeld 
the experience seemed all unreal. Nor was this unreal- 
ity removed by conversation on grave subjects ; for few 
among either the maturer or the younger beauty could 
do aught but listen to his foreign tongue like unearthly 
strangers in the old fairy tales. They came, however, 
in the course of their talk to the subject of love and mar- 
riage. It is not certain that they entered deeper into 
the great question than a comparison of its attendant 
Anglo-American and Franco-American conventionali- 
ties ; but sure it is that somehow — let those young souls 
divine the method who can — every unearthly stranger 
on that veranda contrived to understand Frowenfeld's 
English. Suddenly the conversation began to move 
over the ground of inter-marriage between hostile fami- 
lies. Then what eyes and ears ! A certain suspicion had 
already found lodgement in the universal Grandissime 
breast, and every one knew in a moment that, to all in- 
tents and purposes, they were about to argue the case of 
Honore and Aurora. 

The conversation became discussion, Frowenfeld, Raoul 
and Raoul’s little seraph against the whole host, chariots, 
horse and archery. Ah ! such strokes as the apothecary 
dealt! And if Raoul and ‘‘Madame Raoul” played 
parts most closely resembling the blowing of horns and 


FROWENFELD AT THE GRANDISSIME MANSION, 403 

breaking of pitchers, still they bore themselves gallantly. 
The engagement was short ; we need not say that no- 
body surrendered ; nobody ever gives up the ship in 
parlor or veranda debate ; and yet — as is generally the 
case in such affairs — truth and justice made some un- 
acknowledged headway. If anybody on either side 
came out wounded — this to the credit of the Creoles as 
a people — the sufferer had the heroic good manners not 
to say so. But the results were more marked than this ; 
indeed, in more than one or two candid young hearts 
and impressible minds the wrongs and rights of sovereign 
true love began there on the spot to be more generously 
conceded and allowed. “ My-de’-seh,” Honore had 
once on a time said to Frowenfeld, meaning that to pre- 
vail in conversational debate one should never follow 
up a faltering opponent, you mus’ crack the egg, not 
smash it ! ” And Joseph, on rising to take his leave, 
could the more amiably overlook the feebleness of the 
invitation to call again, since he rejoiced, for Honore’s 
sake, in the conviction that the egg was cracked. 

Agricola, the Grandissimes told the apothecary, was 
ill in his room, and Madame de Grandissime, his sister 
— Honore’s mother — begged to be excused that she 
might keep him company. The Fusiliers were a very 
close order ; or one might say they garrisoned the 
citadel. 

But Joseph’s rising to go was not immediately upon 
the close of the discussion ; those courtly people would 
not let even an unwelcome guest go with the faintest 
feeling of disrelish for them. They were casting about 
in their minds for some momentary diversion with which 
to add a finishing touch to their guest’s entertainment, 
when Clemence appeared in the front garden-walk and 


404 


THE GRANDISSIMES, 


was quickly surrounded by bounding children, alternately 
begging and demanding a song. Many of even the 
younger adults remembered well when she had been 
“ one of the hands on the place,” and a passionate lover 
of the African dance. In the same instant half a dozen 
voices proposed that for Joseph’s amusement Clemence 
should put her cakes off her head, come up on the 
veranda and show a few of her best steps. 

But who will sing ? ” 

“Raoul!” 

“ Very well ; and what shall it be ? ” 

“ ‘ Madame Gaba.’ ” 

No, Clemence objected. 

“ Well, well, stand back — something better than 
‘ Madame Gaba.’ ” 

Raoul began to sing and Clemence instantly to pace 
and turn, posture, bow, respond to the song, start, 
swing, straighten, stamp, wheel, lift her hand, stoop, 
twist, walk, whirl, tip-toe with crossed ankles, smite 
her palms, march, circle, leap — an endless improvisation 
of rhythmic motion to this modulated responsive chant : 

Raoul. “ Mo pas raimein 

Clemence. Miche Igenne^ oap ! oap! oap!'' 

He. “ Ye donne vingt cinq sous pou? tnanze pouliP* 

She. “ Miche Igenne^ dit — dit — dit ” 

He. “ Mo pas Vaimein fa ! ” 

She. “ Miche Igenne^ oap ! oap ! oap ! ” 

He. “ Mo pas Paimein fa ! ” 

She. ** Miche Igenne^ oap I oap! oap!'' 

Frowenfeld was not so greatly amused as the ladies 
thought he should have been, and was told that this was 
not a fair indication of what he would see if there were 
ten dancers instead of one. 


FROWENFELD AT THE GRANDISSIME MANSION. 405 

How much less was it an indication of what he would 
have seen in that mansion early the next morning, when 
there was found just outside of Agricola’s bedroom door 
a fresh egg, not cracked, according to Honore’s maxim, 
but smashed, according to the lore of the voudous^ 
Who could have got in in the night ? And did the in™ 
truder get in by magic, by outside lock-picking, or by 
inside collusion ? Later in the morning, the children 
playing in the basement found — it had evidently been 
accidentally dropped, since the true use of its contents 
required them to be scattered in some person’s path — a 
small cloth bag, containing a quantity of dogs’ and cats’ 
hair, cut fine and mixed with salt and pepper. 

“ Clemence ? ” 

“Pooh! Clemence. No! But as sure as the sun 
turns around the world — Palmyre Philosophe ! ” 


CHAPTER LIV. 


** CAULDRON BUBBLE.’* 

The excitement and alarm produced by the practical 
threat of voudou curses upon Agricola was one thing, 
Creole lethargy was quite another ; and when, three 
mornings later, a full quartette of voudou charms was 
found in the four corners of Agricola’s pillow, the great 
Grandissime family were ignorant of how they could 
have come there. Let us examine these terrible engines 
of mischief. In one corner was an acorn drilled through 
with two holes at right angles to each other, a small 
feather run through each hole ; in the second a joint of 
cornstalk with a cavity scooped from the middle, the 
pith left intact at the ends, and the space filled with 
parings from that small callous spot near the knee of the 
horse, called the nail ” ; in the third corner a bunch 
of parti-colored feathers ; something equally meaning- 
less in the fourth. No thread was used in any of them. 
All fastening was done with the gum of trees. It was 
no easy task for his kindred to prevent Agricola, beside 
himself with rage and fright, from going straight to 
Palmyre’s house and shooting her down in open day. 

“ We shall have to watch our house by night,” said a 
gentleman of the household, when they had at length 
restored the Citizen to a condition of mind which en^ 
abled them to hold him in a chair. 


‘ ‘ CA ULDR ON B UBBL E. 


407 


Watch this house?” cried a chorus. ** You don't 
suppose she comes near here, do you ? She does it all 
from a distance. No, no ; watch ker house.” 

Did Agricola believe in the supernatural potency of 
these gimcracks? No, and yes. Not to be foolhardy, 
he quietly slipped down every day to the levee, had a 
slave-boy row him across the river in a skiff, landed, 
re-embarked, and in the middle of the stream surrepti- 
tiously cast a picayune over his shoulder into the river. 
Monsieur D’Embarras, the imp of death thus placated, 
must have been a sort of spiritual Cheap John, 

Several more nights passed. The house ofPalmyre, 
closely watched, revealed nothing. No one came out, 
no one went in, no light was seen. They should have 
watched it in broad daylight. At last, one midnight, 
Tolyte Grandissime stepped cautiously up to one of the 
batten doors with an auger, and succeeded, without 
arousing any one, in boring a hole. He discovered a 
lighted candle standing in a glass of water. 

** Nothing but a bedroom light,” said one. 

Ah, bah!” whispered the other; “it is to make 
the spell work strong.” 

We will not tell Agricola first; we had better tell 
Honore,” said Sylvestre. 

'‘You forget,” said Tolyte, " that I no longer have 
any acquaintance with Monsieur Honore Grandissime.” 

They told Agamemnon ; and it would have gone hard 
with the milatraise'' but for the additional fact that 
suspicion had fastened upon another person ; but now 
this person in turn had to be identified. It was decided 
not to report progress to old Agricola, but to await and 
seek further developments. Agricola, having lost all abil 
ity to sleep in the mansion, moved into a small cottage 


4o8 


THE GRANDISSIMES, 


in a grove near the house. But the very next morning, 
he turned cold with horror to find on his door-step a 
small black-coffined doll, with pins run through the heart, 
a burned-out candle at the head and another at the feet. 

“ You know it is Palmyre, do you ? ” asked Agamem- 
non, seizing the old man as he was going at a headlong 
pace through the garden gate. “ What if I should tell 
you that, by watching the Congo dancing-ground at mid- 
night to-night, you will see the real author of this mis- 
chief— eh ? ” 

“ And why to-night ? ” 

“ Because the moon rises at midnight.” 

There was firing that night in the deserted Congo 
dancing-grounds under the ruins of Fort St. Joseph, or, 
as we would say now, in Congo Square, from three 
pistols — Agricola’s, ’Polyte’s, and the weapon of an ill- 
defined, retreating figure answering the description of 
the person who had stabbed Agricola the preceding Feb- 
ruary. And yet,” said ’Polyte, “ I would have sworn 
that it was Palmyre doing this work.” 

Through Raoul these events came to the ear of Frow- 
enfeld. It was about the time that Raoul’s fishing- 
party, after a few days’ mishaps, had returned home. 
Palmyre, on several later dates, had craved further 
audiences and shown other letters from the hidden 
f. m. c. She had heard them calmly, and steadfastly 
preserved the one attitude of refusal. But it could not 
escape Frowenfeld’s notice that she encouraged the 
sending of additional letters. He easily guessed the 
courier to be Clemence ; and now, as he came to ponder 
these revelations of Raoul, he found that within twenty- 
four hours after every visit of Clemence to the house of 
Palmyre, Agricola suffered a visitation. 


CHAPTER LV. 


CAUGHT. 

The fig-tree, in Louisiana, sometimes sheds its leaves 
while it is yet summer. In the rear of the Grandissime 
mansion, about two hundred yards north-w'est of it and 
fifty north-east of the cottage in which Agricola had made 
his new abode, on the edge of the grove of which we 
have spoken, stood one of these trees, whose leaves were 
beginning to lie thickly upon the ground beneath it. 
An ancient and luxuriant hedge of Cherokee rose started 
i from this tree and stretched toward the north-west across 
! the level country, until it merged into the green confu- 
I sion of gardened homes in the vicinity of Bayou St. 

I Jean, or, by night, into the common obscurity of a star- 
■ lit perspective. When an unclouded moon shone upon 
j it, it cast a shadow as black as velvet. 

Under this fig-tree, some three hours later than that 
I at which Honore bade Joseph good-night, a man was 
I stooping down and covering something with the broad, 

I fallen leaves. 

i “ The moon will rise about three o’clock,” thought 
j he. ‘'That, the hour of universal slumber, will be, by 
1 all odds, the thing most likely to bring developments.” 

He was the same person who had spent the most of 
! the day in a blacksmith shop in St. Louis street, super- 
j intending a piece of smithing. Now that he seemed to 


410 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


have got the thing well hid, he turned to the base o! 
the tree and tried the security of some attachment. 
Yes, it was firmly chained. He was not a robber ; he 
was not an assassin ; he was not an officer of police ; and 
what is more notable, seeing he was a Louisianian, he 
was not a soldier nor even an ex-soldier ; and this al- 
though, under his clothing, he was encased from head 
to foot in a complete suit of mail. Of steel ? No. Of 
brass ? No. It was all one piece — a white skin ; and 
on his head he wore an invisible helmet — the name of 
Grandissime. As he straightened up and withdrew into 
the grove, you would have recognized at once — by his 
thick-set, powerful frame, clothed seemingly in black, 
but really, as you might guess, in blue cottonade, by 
his black beard and the general look of a seafarer — a 
frequent visitor at the Grandissime mansion, a country 
member of that great family, one whom we saw at the 
fete de gran dp ere, 

Capitain Jean-Baptiste Grandissime was a man of few 
words, no sentiments, short methods ; materialistic, we 
might say ; quietly ferocious ; indifferent as to means, 
positive as to ends, quick of perception, sure in mat- 
ters of saltpetre, a stranger at the custom-house, and 
altogether — take him right — very much of a gentleman. 
He had been, for a whole day, beset with the idea that 
the way to catch a voudou was — to catch him ; and as he 
had caught numbers of them on both sides of the trop- 
ical and semitropical Atlantic, he decided to try his skill 
privately on the one who — his experience told him — was 
likely to visit Agricola’s door-step to-night. All things 
being now prepared, he sat down at the root of a tree 
in the grove, where the shadow was very dark, and 
seemed quite comfortable. He did not strike at the 


CA UGHT. 


41 1 

mosquitoes ; they appeared to understand that he did 
not wish to trifle. Neither did his thoughts or feelings 
trouble him ; he sat and sharpened a small pen-knife on 
his boot. 

His mind — his occasional transient meditation — was 
the more comfortable because he was one of those few 
who had coolly and unsentimentally allowed Honore 
Grandissime to sell their lands. It continued to grow 
plainer every day that the grants with which theirs were 
classed — grants of old French or Spanish under-officials 
— were bad. Their sagacious cousin seemed to have 
struck the right standard, and while those titles which 
he still held on to remained unimpeached, those that he 
had parted with to purchasers — as, for instance, the 
grant held by this Capitain Jean-Baptiste Grandissime — 
could be bought back now for half what he had got for 
it. Certainly, as to that, the Capitain might well have 
that quietude of mind which enabled him to find occu- 
pation in perfecting the edge of his penknife and trim- 
ming his nails in the dark. 

By and by he put up the little tool and sat looking 
out upon the prospect. The time of greatest probabil- 
ity had not come, but the voudou might choose not to 
wait for that ; and so he kept a watch. There was a 
great stillness. The cocks had finished a round and 
were silent. No dog barked. A few tiny crickets made 
the quiet land seem the more deserted. Its beauties 
were not entirely overlooked — the innumerable host of 
stars above, the twinkle of myriad fire-flies on the dark 
earth below. Between a quarter and a half mile away, 
almost in a line with the Cherokee hedge, was a faint 
rise of ground, and on it a wide-spreading live-oak. 
There the keen, seaman’s eye of the Capitain came to a 


412 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


stop, fixed upon a spot which he had not noticed before. 
He kept his eye on it, and waited for the stronger light 
of the moon. 

Presently behind the grove at his back she rose ; and 
almost the first beam that passed over the tops of the 
trees, and stretched across the plain, struck the object 
of his scrutiny. What was it ? The ground, he knew ; 
the tree, he knew ; he knew there ought to be a white 
paling enclosure about the trunk of the tree ; for there 
were buried — ah ! — he came as near laughing at himself 
as ever he did in his life ; the apothecary of the rue 
Royale had lately erected some marble head-stones 
there, and 

“Oh ! my God 1 ” 

While Capitain Jean-Baptiste had been trying to guess 
what the tombstones were, a woman had been coming 
toward him in shadow of the hedge. She was not ex- 
pecting to meet him ; she did not know that he was 
there ; she knew she had risks to run, but was ignorant 
of what they were ; she did not know there was any- 
thing under the fig-tree which she so nearly and noise- 
lessly approached. One moment her foot was lifted 
above the spot where the unknown object lay with wide- 
stretched jaws under the leaves, and the next, she uttered 
that cry of agony and consternation which interrupted 
the watcher’s meditation. She was caught in a huge 
steel-trap. 

Gapitain Jean-Baptiste Grandissime remained perfect- 
ly still. She fell, a snarling, struggling, groaning heap, 
to the ground, wild with pain and fright, and began the 
hopeless effort to draw the jaws of the trap apart with 
her fingers. 

“ Ah / bon DieUy bon Dieu / Quit 2 L-bi-i-i'i-tin* me! 


CAUGHT. 


413 


Oh ! Lawd ’a’ mussy ! Ow-ow-ow ! lemme go ! Dey 
go’n’ to kyetch an’ hang me ! Oh ! an’ I hain’ done 
nuttin’ ’gainst nobody ! Ah ! Ifon Dieu ! ein pov* vii 
nigresse i Oh! Jemimy 1 I cyan’ gid dis yeh t’ing 
loose — oh I m-m-m-m 1 An’ dey’ll tra to mek out ’t I 
voudou’ Mich-Agricole I An’ I didn’ had nutt’n’ do 
wid it I Oh Lawd, oh, Lawdy you’ll be mighty good ef 
you lemme loose ! I’m a po’ nigga ! Oh ! dey hadn’ 
ought to mek it so poivivX ! ” 

Hands, teeth, the free foot, the writhing body, every 
combination of available forces failed to spread the 
savage jaws, though she strove until hands and mouth 
were bleeding. 

Suddenly she became silent ; a thought of precaution 
came to her ; she lifted from the earth a burden she had 
dropped there, struggled to a half-standing posture, and, 
with her foot still in the trap, was endeavoring to ap- 
proach the end of the hedge near by, to thrust this bur- 
den under it, when she opened her throat in a speech- 
less ecstasy of fright on feeling her arm grasped by her 
captor. 

“ 0-o-o-h ! Lawd! o-o-oh ! Lawd!” she cried, in a 
frantic, husky whisper, going down upon her knees, 
“ OhyMiM ! pou Vamou' du bon Dieu ! Pou V amou' du 
bon Dieu ayez pitU d'ein poP negresse ! Pov' n^gressey 
Mickey w’at nevva done nutt’n’ to nobody on’y jis sell 
calas / I iss cornin’ ’long an’ step inteh dis- 3 ^eh bah-trap 
by diCCident / Ah ! Mickey Mickey ple-e-ease be good ! 
Ah ! mon Dieu ! — an’ de Lawd ’ll reward you — ’deed ’E 
will, Michn ” 

** Qui ci qa ? ” asked the Capitain, sternly, stooping 
and grasping her burden, which she had been trying to 
conceal under herself. 


414 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


“ Oh, Miche, don’ trouble dat ! Please jes tek dis 
yell trap often me — da's all ! Oh, don’t, mawstah, 
ple-e-ease don' spill all my wash’n t’ings ! 'Taint nutt’n 
but my old dress roll’ up into a ball. Oh, please — now, 
you see ? nutt’n’ but a po’ nigga’s dr — oh / fo' de love d 
Gody Mich^ Jean-Baptistey don open dat ah box / Y'en 
a rein du tout la-dans y Mich^ Jean-Baptiste ; du touty du 
tout I Oh, my God ! Mich^y on'y jis teck dis-yeh t’ing 
oft" n my laig, ef yo please y it’s bit’n me lak a dawg ! — if 
you please^ MiM ! Oh ! you git kill’ if you open dat 
ah box, Mawse Jean-Baptiste ! Md parole d'honneur 
le plus sacre — I’ll kiss de cross ! Oh, sweet Mich^ JeaUy 
laisse moi alter I Nutt’n but some dutty close la-dans'' 
She repeated this again and again, even after Capitain 
Jean-Baptiste had disengaged a small black coffin from 
the old dress in which it was wrapped. “ Rien du touty 
Michd ; nutt’n’ but some wash’n’ fo’ one o’ de boys.” 

He removed the lid and saw within, resting on the 
cushioned bottom, the image, in myrtle-wax, moulded 
and painted with some rude skill, of a negro’s bloody 
arm cut off near the shoulder — a bras-coup^ — with a dirk 
grasped in its hand. 

The old woman lifted her eyes to heaven ; her teeth 
chattered ; she gasped twice before she could recover 
utterance. “ Ohy Mich^ Jean Baptiste, I di’n’ mek dat 
ah ! Mo t^ pas // qa I I swea’ befo’ God ! Oh, no, no, 
no ! ’Tain’ nutt’n’ nohow but a fill play-toy, Miche. 
Oh, sweet Mich^ Jean, you not gwan to kill me? I 
di’n’ mek it ! It was — ef you lemme go, I tell you who 
mek it! Sho’s I live I tell you, Mich^ Jean — ef you 
lemme go \ Sho’s God’s good to me — ef you lemme 
go I Oh, God A’mighty, Michd JeaUy sho’s God’s good 
to me.” 


CAUGHT, 


415 


She was becoming incoherent. 

Then Capitain Jean-Baptiste Grandissime for the first 
time spoke at length : 

“ Do you see this ? ” he spoke the French of the At- 
chafalaya. He put his long flint-lock pistol close to her 
face. “I shall take the trap off; you will walk three 
feet in front of me ; if you make it four I blow your 
brains out ; we shall go to Agricole. But right here, 
just now, before I count ten, you will tell me who sent 
you here ; at the word ten, if I reach it, I pull the trigger. 
One — two — three ” 

‘‘ Oh, Mich^, she gwan to gib me to de devil wid hou- 
dou ef I tell you — Oh, good Lawdy ! ’’ 

But he did not pause. 

“ Four — five — six — seven — eight ” 

“ Palmyre ! gasped the negress, and grovelled on the 
ground. 

The trap was loosened from her bleeding leg, the bur- 
den placed in her arms, and they disappeared in the 
direction of the mansion. 

A black shape, a boy, the lad who had carried the 
basil to Frowenfeld, rose up from where he had all this 
time lain, close against the hedge, and glided off down 
its black shadow to warn the philosophe. 

When Clemence was searched, there was found on her 
iperson an old table-knife with its end ground to a point. 


CHAPTER LVI. 


BLOOD FOR A BLOW. 

It seems to be one of the self-punitive characteristics of 
tyranny, whether the tyrant be a man, a community, or 
a caste, to have a pusillanimous fear of its victim. It 
was not when Clemence lay in irons, it is barely now, 
that our South is casting off a certain apprehensive tre- 
mor, generally latent, but at the slightest provocation 
active, and now and then violent, concerning her 
“blacks.” This fear, like others similar elsewhere in 
the world, has always been met by the same one anti- 
dote — terrific cruelty to the tyrant’s victim. So we shall 
presently see the Grandissime ladies, deeming themselves 
compassionate, urging their kinsmen to “give the poor 
wretch a sound whipping and let her go.” Ah! what 
atrocities are we unconsciously perpetrating North and 
South now, in the name of mercy or defence, which the 
advancing light of progressive thought will presently 
show out in their enormity ? 

Agricola slept late. He had gone to his room the 
evening before much incensed at the presumption of 
some younger Grandissimes who had brought up the 
subject, and spoken in defence of, their cousin Honore. 
He had retired, however, not to rest, but to construct 
an engine of offensive warfare which would revenge him 
a hundred-fold upon the miserable school of imported 


BLOOD FOR A BLOW. 417 

thought which had sent its revolting influences to the 
very Grandissime hearth-stone ; he wrote a “ Phillipique 
Gen^rale contre la Conduite du Gotiv erne merit de la 
Loutsia?ie, and a short but vigorous chapter in English 
on the “Insanity of Educating the Masses.” This ac- 
complished, he had gone to bed in a condition of peace- 
ful elation, eager for the next day to come that he might 
take these mighty productions to Joseph Frowenfeld, and 
make him a present of them for insertion in his book of 
tables. 

Jean-Baptiste felt no need of his advice, that he should 
rouse him ; and, for a long time before the old man 
awoke, his younger kinsmen were stirring about unwont- 
edly, going and coming through the hall of the mansion, 
along its verandas and up and down its outer flight of 
stairs. Gates were opening and shutting, errands were 
being carried by negro boys on bareback horses, Char- 
lie Mandarin of St. Bernard parish and an Armand Fusi- 
lier from Faubourg Ste. Marie had on some account 
come — as they told the ladies — “to take breakfast”; 
and the ladies, not yet informed, amusedly wondering 
at all this trampling and stage whispering, were up a 
trifle early. In those days Creole society was a ship, in 
which the fair sex were all passengers and the ruder sex 
the crew. The ladies of the Grandissime mansion this 
morning asked passengers’ questions, got sailors’ an- 
swers, retorted wittily and more or less satirically, and 
laughed often, feeling their constrained insignificance. 
However, in a house so full of bright-eyed children, with 
mothers and sisters of all ages as their confederates, the 
secret was soon out, and before Agricola had left his 
little cottage in the grove the topic of all tongues was 
the abysmal treachery and ingratitude of negro slaves. 

i8* 


4i8 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


The whole tribe of Grandissime believed, this mornings 
in the doctrine of total depravity — of the negro. 

And right in the face of this belief, the ladies put forth 
the generously intentioned prayer for mercy. They 
were answered that they little knew what frightful perils 
they were thus inviting upon themselves. 

The male Grandissimes were not surprised at this ex“ 
hibition of weak clemency in their lovely women ; they 
were proud of it ; it showed the magnanimity that was 
natural to the universal Grandissime heart, when not re- 
strained and repressed by the stern necessities of the 
hour. But Agricola disappointed them. Why should 
he weaken and hesitate, and suggest delays and middle 
courses, and stammer over their proposed measures as 

extreme” ? In very truth, it seemed as though that 
drivelling, woman-beaten Deutsch apotheke — ha ! ha ! 
ha ! — in the rue Royale had bewitched Agricola as well 
as Honore. The fact was, Agricola had never got over 
the interview which had saved Sylvestre his life. 

“ Here, Agricole,” his kinsmen at length said, '^you 
see you are too old for this sort of thing ; besides, it 
would be bad taste for you, who might be presumed to 
harbor feelings of revenge, to have a voice in this coun- 
cil.” And then they added to one another : ** We will 
wait until Tolyte reports whether or not they have 
caught Palmyre ; much will depend on that.” 

’ Agricola, thus ruled out, did a thing he did not fully 
understand; he rolled Philippique Generate'' 

and the “ Insanity of Educating the Masses,” and, with 
these in one hand and his staff in the other, set out for 
Frowenfeld’s, not merely smarting but trembling under 
the humiliation of having been sent, for the first time in 
his life, to the rear as a non-combatant. 


BLOOD FOR A BLOW. 


419 


He found the apothecary among his clerks, preparing 
with his own hands the “ chalybeate tonic ” for which 
the f. m. c. was expected to call. Raoul Innerarity 
stood at his elbow, looking on with an amiable air of 
having been superseded for the moment by his mas- 
ter. 

** Ha-ah ! Professor Frowenfeld ! ” 

The old man flourished his scroll. 

Frowenfeld said good-morning, and they shook hands 
across the counter ; but the old man’s grasp was so 
tremulous that the apothecary looked at him again. 

“ Does my hand tremble, Joseph ? It is not strange ; 
I have had much to excite me this morning.” 

W’at’s de mattah ? ” demanded Raoul, quickly. 

** My life — which I admit, Professor Frowenfeld, is 
of little value compared with such a one as yours — has 
been — if not attempted, at least threatened.” 

How ? ” cried Raoul. 

H-really, Professor, we must agree that a trifle like 
that ought not to make old Agricola Fusilier nervous. 
But I find it painful, sir, very painful. I can lift up this 
right hand, Joseph, and swear I never gave a slave — 
man or woman — a blow in my life but according to my 
notion of justice. And now to find my life attempted by 
former slaves of my own household, and taunted with 
the righteous hamstringing of a dangerous runaway ? 
But they have apprehended the miscreants ; one is act- 
ually in hand, and justice will take its course ; trust the 
Grandissimes for that — though, really, Joseph, I assure 
you, I counselled leniency.” 

** Do you say they have caught her ? ” Frowenfeld’s 
question was sudden and excited ; but the next moment 
he had controlled himself. 


420 


THE GRANDISSIMES, 


H'h my son, I did not say it was a ‘her * ! ” 

“ Was it not Clemence ? Have they caught her ? ” 
H-yes ” 

The apothecary turned to Raoul. 

Go tell Honore Grandissime.” 

*‘But, Professor Frowenfeld began Agri« 

cola. 

Frowenfeld turned to repeat his instruction, but Raoul 
was already leaving the store. 

Agricola straightened up angrily. 

“ Pro-hofessor Frowenfeld, by what right do you in- 
terfere ? ” 

“No matter,” said the apothecary, turning half-way 
and pouring the tonic into a vial. 

“Sir,” thundered the old lion, “ h-I demand of you 
to answer ! How dare you insinuate that my kinsmen 
may deal otherwise than justly ? ” 

“ Will they treat her exactly as if she were white, and 
had threatened the life of a slave?” asked Frowenfeld 
from behind the desk at the end of the counter. 

The old man concentrated all the indignation of hif 
nature in the reply. 

“ No-ho, sir ! ” 

As he spoke, a shadow approaching from the door 
caused him to turn. The tall, dark, finely clad form of 
the f. m. c. , in its old soft-stepping dignity and its sad 
emaciation, came silently toward the spot where he 
stood. 

Frowenfeld saw this, and hurried forward inside the 
counter with the preparation in his hand. 

“ Professor Frowenfeld,” said Agricola, pointing with 
his ugly staff, ‘‘ I demand of you, as the keeper of a 
white man’s pharmacy, to turn that negro out.” 


BLOOD FOR A BLOW. 


421 


“Citizen Fusilier!” explained the apothecary; 
“ Mister Grandis ” 

He felt as though no price would be too dear at that 
moment to pay for the presence of the other Honore. 
He had to go clear to the end of the counter and come 
down the outside again to reach the two men. They 
did not wait for him. Agricola turned upon the 
f. m. c. 

“Take off your hat 1 ” 

A sudden activity seized every one connected with 
the establishment as the quadroon let his thin right hand 
slowly into his bosom, and answered in French, in his 
soft, low voice : 

“ I wear my hat on my head.” 

Frowenfeld was hurrying toward them ; others stepped 
forward, and from two or three there came half- uttered 
exclamations of protest ; but unfortunately nothing had 
been done or said to provoke any one to rush upon 
them, when Agricola suddenly advanced a step and struck 
the f. m. c. on the head with his staff. Then the general 
outcry and forward rush came too late ; the two crashed 
together and fell. Agricola above, the f. m. c. below, and 
a long knife lifted up from underneath and sinking to 
its hilt, once — twice— thrice, — in the old man’s back. 

The two men rose, one in the arms of his friends, the 
other upon his own feet. While every one’s attention 
was directed toward the wounded man, his antagonist 
restored his dagger to its sheath, took up his hat and 
walked away unmolested. When Frowenfeld, with Agri- 
cola still in his arms, looked around for the quadroon, he 
was gone. 

Doctor Keene, sent for instantly, was soon at Agri- 
cola’s side. 


422 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


“ Take him upstairs ; he can’t be moved any further/ 
Frowenfeld turned and began to instruct some one to 
run upstairs and ask permission, but the little doctor 
stopped him. 

“ Joe, for shame ! you don’t know those women better 
than that ? Take the old man right up ! ” 


CHAPTER LVII. 


VOUDOU CURED. 

** Honorb,” said Agricola, faintly, “ where is Hon* 
ore ! ” 

“ He has been sent for,” said Doctor Keene and the 
two ladies in a breath. 

Raoul, bearing the word concerning Clernence, and 
the later messenger summoning him to Agricola’s bed- 
side, reached Honore within a minute of each other. 
His instructions were quickly given, for Raoul to take his 
horse and ride down to the family mansion, to break 
gently to his mother the news of Agricola’s disaster, and 
to say to his kinsmen with imperative emphasis, not to 
touch the marchande des calas till he should come. 
Then he hurried to the rue Royale. 

But when Raoul arrived at the mansion he saw at a 
glance that the news had outrun him. The family car- 
riage was already coming round the bottom of the front 
stairs for three Mesdames Grandissime and Madame 
Martinez. The children on all sides had dropped their 
play, and stood about, hushed and staring. The ser- 
vants moved with quiet rapidity. In the hall he was 
stopped by two beautiful girls. 

‘‘Raoul! Oh, Raoul, how is he now? Oh! Raoul, 
if you could only stop them ! They have taken old 
Clernence down into the swamp — as soon as they heard 


424 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


about Agricole — Oh, Raoul, surely that would be cruel I 
She nursed me — and me — when we were babies J 

Where is Agamemnon ? 

“ Gone to the city.” 

What did he say about it ? ” 

He said they were doing wrong, that he did not 
approve their action, and that they would get themselves 
into trouble : that he washed his hands of it.” 

Ah-h-h ! ” exclaimed Raoul, wash his hands ! 
Oh, yes, wash his hands ! Suppose we all wash our 
hands? But where is Valentine? Where is Charlie 
Mandarin ? ” 

Ah ! Valentine is gone with Agamemnon, saying the 
same thing, and Charlie Mandarin is down in the swamp 
the worst of all of them ! ” 

“ But why did you let Agamemnon and Valentine go 
off that way, you ? ” 

Ah ! listen to Raoul ! What can a woman do ? ” 

“ What can a woman — Well, even if I was a woman, 
I would do something ! ” 

He hurried from the house, leaped into the saddle and 
galloped across the fields toward the forest. 

Some rods within the edge of the swamp, which, at 
this season, was quite dry in many places, on a spot 
where the fallen dead bodies of trees overlay one an- 
other and a dense growth of willows and vines and 
dwarf palmetto shut out the light of the open fields, the 
younger and some of the harsher senior members of the 
Grandissime family were sitting or standing about, in an 
irregular circle whose centre was a big and singularly 
misshapen water-willow. At the base of this tree sat 
Clemence, motionless and silent, a wan, sickly color in 


VOUDOU CURED. 


425 


her face, and that vacant look in her large, white-balled, 
brown-veined eyes, with which hope-forsaken cowardice 
waits for death. Somewhat apart from the rest, on an 
old cypress stump, half-stood, half-sat, in whispered 
consultation, Jean-Baptiste Grandissime and Charlie 
Mandarin. 

Eh bien^ old woman,” said Mandarin, turning, with- 
out rising, and speaking sharply in the negro French, 

have you any reason to give why you should not be 
hung to that limb over your head ? ” 

She lifted her eyes slowly to his, and made a feeble 
gesture of deprecation. 

“ Mo te pas // cette bras, Mawse Challie — I di’n’t mek 
dat ahm ; no ’ndeed I di’n’, Mawse Challie. I ain’ wuth 
bangin’, gen’lemen ; you’d oughteh jis’ gimme fawty 
an’ lemme go. I — I — I — I di’n’ ’ten’ no hawm to Maws- 
Agricole ; I wa’n’t gwan to hu’t nobody in God’s work ; 
’ndeed I wasn’. I done tote dat old case-knife fo’ twen- 
ty year’ — mo po' te qa dipi vingt ans. I’m a po’ ole mar^ 
cha7ide des calas ; mo courri ’mongs’ de sojer boys to 
sell my cakes, you know, and da’s de onyest reason why 
I cyah dat ah ole fool knife.” She seemed to take some 
hope from the silence with which they heard her. Her 
eye brightened and her voice took a tone of excitement. 
“ You’d oughteh tek me and put mein calaboose, an’ 
let de law tek ’is co’se. You’s all nice gen’lemen — 
werry nice gen’lemen, an’ you sorter owes it to yo’sev’s 
fo’ to not do no sich nasty wuck as hangin’ a po’ ole 
nigga wench ; ’deed you does. ’Tain’ no use to hang 
me ; you gwan to kyetch Palmyre yit ; li courri dans 
marais ; she is in de swamp yeh, sum’ers ; but as con- 
cernin’ me, you’d oughteh jis gimme fawty' an’ lemme 
go. You mus’n’ b’lieve all dis-yeh nonsense ’bout in- 


426 


THE GRANDISSIMES, 


surrectionin’ ; all fool-nigga talk. W’at we want to be 
insurrectionin’ faw ? We de happies' people in de God’s 
worl’ ! ” She gave a start, and cast a furtive glance of 
alarm behind her. Yes, we is; you jis’ oughteh gim- 
me fawty an’ lemme go ! Please, gen’lemen ! God’ll 
be good to you, you nice, sweet gen’lemen ! ” 

Charlie Mandarin made a sign to one who stood at her 
back, who responded by dropping a rawhide noose over 
her head. She bounded up with a cry of terror ; it 
maybe that she had all along hoped that all was make- 
believe. She caught the noose wildly with both hands 
and tried to lift it over her head. 

Ah ! no, mawsteh, you cyan’ do dat ! It’s ag’in’ de 
law ! I’s ’bleeged to have my trial, yit. Oh, no, no ! 
Oh, good God, no! Even if I is a nigga I You cyan’ 
jis’ murdeh me hyeh in de woods I Mo dis la zize ! I 
tell de judge on you 1 You ain’ got no mo’ biznis to do 
me so ’an if I was a white ’oman ! You dassent tek a 
white ’oman out’n de Pa’sh Pris’n an’ do ’er so I Oh, 
sweet mawsteh, fo’ de love o’ God ! Oh, Mawse Challie, 
poll V amou' du bon Dieii pas qa ! Oh, Mawse 
’Polyte, is you gwan to let ’em kill ole Clemence ? Oh, 
fo’ de mussy o’ Jesus Christ, Mawse ’Polyte, leas’ of all, 
you! You dassent help to kill me, Mawse ’Polyte! 
You knows why! Oh God, Mawse ’Polyte, you knows 
why ! Leas’ of all you, Mawse ’Polyte ! Oh, God ’a’ 
mussy on my wicked ole soul ! I aint fitt’n to die ! Oh, 
gen’lemen, I kyan’ look God in de face ! Oh, Michds, 
ayez pitU de moin ! Oh, God A mighty ha! mussy on my 
soul! Oh, gen’lemen, dough yo’ kinfolks kyvaeh up 
yo’ tricks now, dey’ll dwap f’um undeh you some day ! 
SoU lev^ Ih, licouch^ la ! Yo’ t’un will come ! Oh, God 
A’mighty ! de God o’ de po’ nigga wench ! Look 


VO [/DOC/ CURED. 


427 


down, oh God, look down an* stop dis *yeh foolishness ! 
Oh, God, fo’ de love o’ Jesus ! Oh^ Michds^ y^en a ein 
zizeme7it ! Oh, yes, deh’s a judgmen’ day ! Den it 
wont be a bit o’ use to you to be white ! Oh, oh, oh, 
oh, oh, oh, fo’, fo’, fo’, de, de, love o' God ! Oh / ’* 

They drew her up. 

Raoul was not far off. He heard the woman’s last 
cry, and came threshing through the bushes on foot. 
He saw Sylvestre, unconscious of any approach, spring 
forward, jerk away the hands that had drawn the thong 
over the branch, let the strangling woman down and 
loosen the noose. Her eyes, starting out with hor- 
ror, turned to him ; she fell on her knees and clasped 
her hands. The tears were rolling down Sylvestre’s 
face. 

“ My friends, we must not do this ! You shall not 
do it ! ” 

He hurled away, with twice his natural strength, one 
who put out a hand. 

‘‘No, sirs!” cried Raoul, “you shall not do it I I 
come from Honore I Touch her who dares 1 ” 

He drew a weapon. 

“Monsieur Innerarity,” said ’Polyte, who is Mon- 
sieur Honore Grandissime ? There are two of the 
name, you know, — partners — brothers. Which of — but 
it makes no difference ; before either of them sees this 
assassin she is going to be a lump of nothing ! ” 

The next word astonished every one. It was Charlie 
Mandarin who spoke. 

“ Let her go 1 ” 

“ Let her go ! ” said Jean-Baptiste Grandissime ; 
“ give her a run for life. Old woman rise up. We pro- 
pose to let you go. Can you run ? Never mind, we 


428 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


shall see. Achille, put her upon her feet. Now, old 
woman, run ! ” 

She walked rapidly, but with unsteady feet, toward 
the fields. 

“ Run ! If you don’t run I will shoot you this min- 
ute ! ” 

She ran. 

‘‘ Faster!” 

She ran faster. 

‘‘Run!” 

“Run!” 

“ Run, Clemence ! Ha, ha, ha ! ” It was so funny to 
see her scuttling and tripping and stumbling. “ Courri ! 
courri, Clemence ! c'est pan' to vie I ha, ha, ha ” 

A pistol-shot rang out close behind Raoul’s ear ; it 
was never told who fired it. The negress leaped into the 
air and fell at full length to the ground, stone dead. 


CHAPTER LVIII. 


DYING WORDS. 

Drivers of vehicles in the rue Royale turned aside 
before two slight barriers spanning the way, one at the 
corner below, the other at that above, the house where 
the aged high-priest of a doomed civilization lay bleed- 
ing to death. The floor of the store below, the pave- 
ment of the corridor where stood the idle volante, were 
covered with straw, and servants came and went by the 
beckoning of the hand. 

“ This way,” whispered a guide of the four ladies from 
the Grandissime mansion. As Honore’s mother turned 
the angle half-way up the muffled stair, she saw at the 
landing above, standing as if about to part, yet in grave 
council, a man and woman, the fairest — she noted it even 
in this moment of extreme distress — she had ever looked 
upon. He had already set one foot down upon the stair, 
but at sight of the ascending group drew back and said : 

It is my mother;” then turned to his mother and 
took her hand ; they had been for months estranged, 
but now they silently kissed. 

“ He is sleeping,” said Honore. ** Maman, Madame 
Nancanou.” 

The ladies bowed — the one looking very large and 
splendid, the other very sweet and small. There was a 
single instant of silence, and Aurora burst into tears. 


430 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


For a moment Madame Grandissime assumed a frown 
that was almost a reminder of her brother's, and then 
the very pride of the Fusiliers broke down. She uttered 
an inaudible exclamation, drew the weeper firmly into 
her bosom, and with streaming eyes and choking voice, 
but yet with majesty, whispered, laying her hand on Au 
rora’s head : 

** Never mind, my child ; never mind ; never mind.” 

And Honor^’s sister, when she was presently intro- 
duced, kissed Aurora and murmured : 

“The good God bless thee ! It is He who has brought 
us together.” 

“Who is with him just now?” whispered the two 
other ladies, while Honore and his mother stood a mo- 
ment aside in hurried consultation. 

“ My daughter,” said Aurora, “ and ” 

“Agamemnon,” suggested Madame Martinez. 

“ I believe so,” said Aurora. 

Valentine appeared from the direction of the sick-room 
and beckoned to Honore. Doctor Keene did the same 
and continued to advance. 

“ Awake ? ” asked Honord. 

“ Yes.” 

“ Alas ! my brother ! ” said Madame Grandissime, and 
started forward, followed by the other women. 

“ Wait,” said Honore, and they paused. “ Charlie,” 
he said, as the little doctor persistently pushed by him 
at the head of the stair. 

“ Oh, there’s no chance, Honore, you’d as well all go 
in there.” 

They gathered into the room and about the bed 
Madame Grandissime bent over it. 

“ Ah ! sister,” said the dying man, '‘is that you? I 


DYING WORDS. 


431 


had the sweetest dream just now — ^just for a minute.” 
He sighed. “I feel very weak. Where is Charlie 
Keene ? ” 

He had spoken in French ; he repeated his question 
in English. He thought he saw the doctor. 

Charlie, if I must meet the worst I hope you will 
tell me so ; I am fully prepared. Ah ! excuse — I 
thought it was 

My eyes seem dim this evening. Est-ce-vous^ Ho- 
nore ? Ah, Honore, you went over to the enemy, did 
you? — Well, — the Fusilier blood would al — ways — do 
as it pleased. Here’s your old uncle’s hand, Honore. 
I forgive you, Honore — my noble-hearted, foolish — 
boy.” He spoke feebly, and with great nervousness. 

“ Water.” 

It was given him by Aurora. He looked in her face ; 
they could not be sure whether he recognized her or 
not. He sank back, closed his eyes, and said, more 
softly and dreamily, as if to himself, “ I forgive every- 
body. A man must die — I forgive — even the enemies 
— of Louisiana.” 

He lay still a few moments, and then revived ex- 
citedly. Honore ! tell Professor Frowenfeld to take 
care of that Philippique G Mr ale. ’Tis a grand thing, 
Honore, on a grand theme ! I wrote it myself in one 
evening. Your Yankee Government is a failure, Ho- 
nor6, a drivelling failure. It may live a year or two, 
not longer. Truth will triumph. The old Louisiana 
will rise again. She will get back her trampled rights. 

When she does, remem ” His voice failed, but he 

held up one finger firmly by way of accentuation. 

There was a stir among the kindred. Surely this was 
a turn for the better. The doctor ought to be brought 


432 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


back. A little while ago he was not nearly so strong. 
“ Ask Honore if the doctor should not come.” But 
Honors shook his head. The old man began again. 

Honore ! Where is Honore ? Stand by me, here, 
Honore ; and sister ? — on this other side. My eyes are 
very poor to-day. Why do I perspire so ? Give me a 
drink. You see — lam better now; I have ceased — to 
throw up blood. Nay, let me talk.” He sighed, closed 
his eyes, and opened them again suddenly. Oh, Ho- 
nore, you and the Yankees — you and — all — going wrong 
— education — masses — weaken — caste — indiscr — quar- 
rels settr — by affidav’ — Oh ! Honore.” 

If he would only forget,” said one, in an agonized 
whisper, “ that philippique gdnerale ! ” 

Aurora whispered earnestly and tearfully to Madame 
Grandissime. Surely they were not going to let him go 
thus ! A priest could at least do no harm. But when 
the proposition was made to him by his sister, he said : 

“No; — no priest. You have my will, Honors, — in 
your iron box. Professor Frowenfeld,” — he changed his 
speech to English, — “ I have written you an article on” 
his words died on his lips. 

“ Joseph, son, I do not see you. Beware, my son, 
of the doctrine of equal rights — a bottomless iniquity. 
Master and man — arch and pier — arch above — pier be- 
low.” He tried to suit the gesture to the words, but both 
hands and feet were growing uncontrollably restless. 

“Society, Professor,” — he addressed himself to a 
weeping girl, — “ society has pyramids to build which 
make menials a necessity, and Nature furnishes the me- 
nials all in dark uniform. She — I cannot tell you — you 
v/ill find — all in the Philippique Ghi^rale. Ah ! Ho 
nor^, is it ” 


DYING WORDS. 


433 


He suddenly ceased. 

‘‘ I have lost my glasses.’* 

Beads of sweat stood out upon his face. He grew 
frightfully pale. There was a general dismayed haste, 
and they gave him a stimulant. 

“ Brother,” said the sister, tenderly. 

He did not notice her. 

Agamemnon ! Go and tell Jean-Baptiste ”his 

eyes drooped and flashed again wildly. 

“ I am here, Agricole,” said the voice of Jean-Bap- 
tiste, close beside the bed. 

I told you to let — that negress ” 

“Yes, we have let her go. We have let all of them 

go-” 

“All of them,” echoed the dying man, feebly, with 
wandering eyes. Suddenly he brightened again and 
tossed his arms. “ Why, there you were wrong, Jean- 
Baptiste ; the community must be protected.” His 
voice sank to a murmur. “ He would not take off — you 
must remem — ” He was silent. “ You must remem — 
those people are — are not — white people.” He ceased 
a moment. “ Where am I going ? ” He began evidently 
to look or try to look, for sonie person ; but they could 
not divine his wish until, with piteous feebleness, he 
called : 

“ Aurore De Grapion ! ” 

So he had known her all the time. 

Honore’s mother had dropped on her knees beside 
the bed, dragging Aurora down with her. They rose 
together. 

The old man groped distressfully with one hand. 
She laid her own in it. 

“ Honore ! ” 

19 


434 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


** What could he want ? ” wondered the tearful family. 
He was feeling about with the other hand. Hon— 
Honore ” — his weak clutch could scarcely close upon 
his nephew’s hand. 

Put them — put — put them ” 

What could it mean ? The four hands clasped. 

Ah ! ” said one, with fresh tears, ''he is trying to 
[speak and cannot.” 

But he did. 

" Aurore De Gra — I pledge’ — pledge’ — pledged — this 
union — to your fa — father — twenty — years — ago.” 

The family looked at each other in dejected amaze* 
ment. They had never known it. 

" He is going,” said Agamemnon ; and indeed it 
seemed as though he was gone ; but he rallied. 

" Agamemnon ! Valentine ! Honore ! patriots ! pro- 
tect the race ! Beware of the ” — that sentence escaped 
him. He seemed to fancy himself haranguing a crowd ; 
made another struggle for intelligence, tried once, twice, 
to speak, and the third time succeeded : 

" Louis — Louisian — a — for — ever ! ” and lay still. 

They put those two words on his tomb. 


CHAPTER LIX. 

WHERE SOME CREOLE MONEY GOES. 

And yet the family committee that ordered the in- 
scription, the mason who cut it in the marble— himself 
a sort of half-Grandissime, half-nobody — and even the 
fair women who each eve of All Saints came, attended 
by flower-laden slave girls, to lay coronals upon the old 
man's tomb, felt, feebly at first, and more and more 
distinctly as years went by, that Forever was a trifle 
long for one to confine one’s patriotic aflection to a small 
fraction of a great country. 

** And you say your family decline to accept the as- 
sistance of the police in their endeavors to bring the 
killer of your uncle to justice ? ” asked some Am^ricain 
or other of ’Polyte Grandissime. 

Sir, mie fam’lie do not want to fetch him to justice ! 
— neither Palmyre ! We are goin’ to fetch the justice 
to them ! and, sir, when we cannot do that, sir, by our- 
selves, sir, — no, sir ! no police ! ” 

So Clemence was the only victim of the family wrath ; 
for the other two were never taken ; and it helps our 
good feeling for the Grandissimes to know that in later 
times, under the gentler influences of a higher civiliza- 
tion, their old Spanish-colonial ferocity was gradually 
absorbed by the growth of better traits. To-day almost 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


43<5 

all the savagery that can justly be charged against Louis- 
iana must — strange to say — be laid at the door of the 
Am^ricam. The Creole character has been diluted and 
sweetened. 

One morning early in September, some two weeks 
after the death of Agricola, the same brig which some- 
thing less than a year before had brought the Frowen- 
felds to New Orleans, crossed, outward bound, the sharp 
line dividing the sometimes tawny waters of Mobile Bay 
from the deep blue Gulf, and bent her way toward 
Europe. 

She had two passengers ; a tall, dark, wasted yet 
handsome man of thirty-seven or thirty-eight years of 
age, and a woman seemingly some three years younger, 
of beautiful though severe countenance ; ** very elegant- 
looking people and evidently rich,” so the brig-master 
described them, — had much the look of some of the 
Mississippi River ‘ Lower Coast ’ aristocracy.” Their 
appearance was the more interesting for a look of mental 
distress evident on the face of each. Brother and sister, 
they called themselves ; but, if so, she was the most 
severely reserved and distant sister the master of the 
vessel had ever seen. 

They landed, if the account comes down to us right, 
at Bordeaux. The captain, a fellow of the peeping sort, 
found pastime in keeping them in sight after they had 
passed out of his care ashore. They went to different 
hotels ! 

The vessel was detained some weeks in this harbor, 
and her master continued to enjoy himself in the way in 
which he had begun. He saw his late passengers meet 
often, in a certain quiet path under the trees of the Quin- 
conce. Their conversations were low ; in the patois 


WHERE SOME CREOLE MONEY GOES. 437 

they used they could have afforded to speak louder ; 
their faces were always grave and almost always troubled. 
The interviews seemed to give neither of them any 
pleasure. The monsieur grew thinner than ever, and 
sadly feeble. 

“ He wants to charter her,” the seaman concluded, 

but she doesn’t like his rates.” 

One day, the last that he saw them together, they 
seemed to be, each in a way different from the other, 
under a great strain. He was haggard, woe-begone, 
nervous; she high-strung, resolute, — with “eyes that 
shone like lamps,” as said the observer. 

“ She’s a-sendin’ him ’way to lew-ard,” thought he. 
Finally the Monsieur handed her — or rather placed upon 
the seat near which she stood, what she would not re- 
ceive — a folded and sealed document, seized her hand, 
kissed it, and hurried away. She sank down upon the 
seat, weak and pale, and rose to go, leaving the docu- 
ment behind. The mariner picked it up ; it was directed 
to M. Honors Grandissime, Noiivelle Orleans, Etats 
Unis, Am&ique. She turned suddenly, as if remember- 
ing, or possibly reconsidering, and received it from 
him. 

“ It looked like a last will and testament,” the sea- 
man used to say, in telling the story. 

The next morning, being at the water’s edge and see- 
ing a number of persons gathering about something not 
far away, he sauntered down toward it to see how small 
a thing was required to draw a crowd of these French- 
men. It was the drowned body of the f. m. c. 

Did the brig-master never see the woman again ? He 
always waited for this question to be asked him, in 
order to state the more impressively that he did. His 


THE GRANDISSIMES, 


43 ^ 

brig became a regular Bordeaux packet, and he saw the 
Madame twice or thrice, apparently living at great ease, 

but solitarily, in the rue . He was free to relate that 

he tried to scrape acquaintance with her, but failed 
ignominiously. 

The rents of No. 19 rue Bienville and of numerous 
other places, including the new drug-store in the rue 
Royale, were collected regularly by H. Grandissime, 
successor to Grandissime Freres. Rumor said, and tra- 
dition repeats, that neither for the advancement of a 
friendless people, nor even for the repair of the proper- 
ties’ wear and tear, did one dollar of it ever remain in 
New Orleans; but that once a year Honore, “as in- 
structed,” remitted to Madame — say Madame Inconnue 
-—of Bordeaux, the equivalent, in francs, of fifty thou' 
sand dollars. It is averred he did this without interrup 
tion for twenty years. “ Let us see : fifty times twenty 
— one million dollars. But that is only a part of the 
pecuniary loss which this sort of thing costs Louisiana.” 

But we have wandered. 


CHAPTER LX. 


“ ALL RIGHT.” 

The sun is once more setting upon the Place d’Armes. 
Once more the shadows of cathedral and town-hall lie 
athwart the pleasant grounds where again the city’s 
fashion and beauty sit about in the sedate Spanish way, 
or stand or slowly move in and out among the old wil- 
lows and along the white walks. Children are again 
playing on the sward ; some, you may observe, are in 
black, for Agricola. You see, too, a more peaceful 
river, a nearer-seeming and greener opposite shore, and 
many other evidences of the drowsy summer’s unwill- 
ingness to leave the embrace of this seductive land ; 
the dreamy quietude of birds ; the spreading, folding, 
re-expanding and slow pulsating of the all-prevailing 
fan (how like the unfolding of an angel’s wing is oft- 
times the broadening of that little instrument !) ; the oft- 
drawn handkerchief ; the pale, cool colors of summer 
costume ; the swallow, circling and twittering overhead 
or darting across the sight ; the languid movement of 
foot and hand ; the reeking flanks and foaming bits of 
horses ; the ear-piercing note of the cicada ; the dan- 
cing butterfly ; the dog, dropping upon the grass and 
looking up to his master with roping jaw and lolling 
tongue ; the air sweetened with the merchandise of the 
flower niarchandes. 


440 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


On the levee road, bridles and saddles, whips, gigs, 
and carriages, — what a merry coming and going ! We 
look, perforce, toward the old bench where, six months 
ago, sat Joseph Frowenfeld. There is somebody there 
— a small, thin, weary-looking man, who leans his bared 
head slightly back against the tree, his thin fingers knit 
together in his lap, and his chapeau-bras pressed under 
his arm. You note his extreme neatness of dress, the 
bright, unhealthy restlessness of his eye, and — as a 
beam from the sun strikes them — the fineness of his 
short red curls. It is Doctor Keene. 

He lifts his head and looks forward. Honore and 
Frowenfeld are walking arm-in-arm under the further- 
most row of willows. Honore is speaking. How grace- 
fully, in correspondence with his words, his free arm or 
hand — sometimes Tiis head or even his lithe form — 
moves in quiet gesture, while the grave, receptive 
apothecary takes into his meditative mind, as into a 
large, cool cistern, the valued rain-fall of his friend’s 
communications. They are near enough for the little 
doctor easily to call them ; but he is silent. The un- 
happy feel so far away from the happy. Yet — “Take 
care ! ” comes suddenly to his lips, and is almost spoken ; 
for the two, about to cross toward the Place d’Armes at 
the very spot where Aurora had once made her narrow 
escape, draw suddenly back, while the black driver of a 
volante reins up the horse he bestrides, and the animal 
himself swerves and stops. 

The two friends, though startled apart, hasten with 
lifted hats to the side of the volante, profoundly con- 
vinced that one at least, of its two occupants, is heart- 
ily sorry that they were not rolled in the dust. Ah, 
ah ! with what a wicked, ill stifled merriment those two 


ALL RIGHT. 


441 


ethereal women bent forward in the faintly perfumed 
clouds of their ravishing summer-evening garb, to ex- 
press their equivocal mortification and regret. 

“ Oh ! I’m so sawry, oh ! Almoze runned o ah, 

ha, ha, ha ! ” 

Aurora could keep the laugh back no longer. 

‘‘An’ righd yeh befo’ haivry boddie ! Ah, ha, ha ! 
'Sieur Grandissime, ’tis me-e-e w’ad know ’ow dad is 
bad, ha, ha, ha ! Oh ! I assu’ you, gen’lemen, id is 
hawful ! ” 

And so on. 

By and by Honor6 seemed urging them to do some- 
thing, the thought of which made them laugh, yet was 
entertained as not entirely absurd. It may have been 
that to which they presently seemed to consent ; they 
alighted from the volante, dismissed it, and walked each 
at a partner’s side down the grassy avenue of the levee. 
It was as Clotilde with one hand swept her light robes 
into perfect adjustment for the walk, and turned to take 
the first step with Frowenfeld, that she raised her eyes 
for the merest instant to his, and there passed between 
them an exchange of glance which made the heart of 
the little doctor suddenly burn like a ball of fire. 

“Now we’re all right,” he murmured bitterly to him- 
self, as, without having seen him, she took the arm of 
the apothecary, and they moved away. 

Yes, if his irony was meant for this pair, he divined 
correctly. Their hearts had found utterance across the 
lips, and the future stood waiting for them on the thresh- 
old of a new existence, to usher them into a perpetual 
copartnership in all its joys and sorrows, its disappoint- 
ments, its imperishable hopes, its aims, its conflicts, its 
rewards ; and the true— the great— the everlasting God 
14* 


442 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


of love was with them. Yes, it had been ‘'all right/* 
now, for nearly twenty-four hours — an age of bliss. 
And now, as they walked beneath the willows where so 
many lovers had walked before them, they had whole 
histories to tell of the tremors, the dismays, the miscon- 
structions and longings through which their hearts had 
come to this bliss ; how at such a time, thus and so ; 
and after such and such a meeting, so and so ; no part 
of which was heard by alien ears, except a fragment of 
Clotilde’s speech caught by a small boy in unintentioned 
ambush. 

“ Evva sinze de firze nighd w’en I big- in to nurze 

you wid de fivver.” 

She was telling him, with that new, sw’eet boldness 
so wonderful to a lately accepted lover, how long she 
had loved him. 

Later on they parted at the porte-cochere. Honore 
and Aurora had got there before them, and were pass- 
ing on up the stairs. Clotilde, catching, a moment be- 
fore, a glimpse of her face, had seen that there was 
something wrong ; weather-wise as to its indications she 
perceived an impending shower of tears. A faint shade 
of anxiety rested an instant on her own face. Frowen- 
feld could not go in. They paused a little within the 
obscurity of the corridor, and just to reassure them- 
selves that everything was “all right,” they 

God be praised for love’s young dream. 

The slippered feet of the happy girl, as she slowly 
mounted the stair alone, overburdened with the weight 
of her blissful reverie, made no sound. As she turned 
its mid-angle she remembered Aurora. She could guess 
pretty well the source of her trouble ; Honore was try- 
ing to treat that hand-clasping at the bedside of Agri- 


‘«^zz right : 


443 


cola as a binding compact ; which, of course, was not 
fair.” She supposed they would have gone into the front 
drawing-room ; she would go into the back. But she 
miscalculated ; as she silently entered the door she saw 
Aurora standing a little way beyond her, close before 
Honors, her eyes cast down, and the trembling fan 
hanging from her two hands like a broken pinion. He 
seemed to be reiterating, in a tender undertone, some 
question intended to bring her to a decision. She lifted 
up her eyes toward his with a mute, frightened glance. 

The intruder, with an involuntary murmur of apology, 
drew back ; but, as she turned, she was suddenly and 
unspeakably saddened to see Aurora drop her glance, 
and, with a solemn slowness whose momentous signifi- 
cance was not to be mistaken, silently shake her head. 

“ Alas ! ” cried the tender heart of Clotilde. Alas 1 
M. Grandissime I ” 


CHAPTER LXI. 


‘*N0 ! ” 


If M. Grandissime had believed that he was pre- 
pared for the supreme bitterness of that moment, he had 
sadly erred. He could not speak. He extended his 
hand in a dumb farewell, when, all unsanctioned by his 
will, the voice of despair escaped him in a low groan. 
At the same moment, a tinkling sound drew near, and 
the room, which had grown dark with the fall of night, 
began to brighten with the softly widening light of an 
evening lamp, as a servant approached to place it in the 
front drawing-room. 

Aurora gave her hand and withdrew it. In the act 
the two somewhat changed position, and the rays of the 
lamp, as the maid passed the door, falling upon Aurora’s 
face, betrayed the again upturned eyes. 

“ ’Sieur Grandissime ” 

They fell. 

The lover paused. 

“ You thing I’m crook'' 

She was the statue of meekness. 

Hope has been cruel to me,” replied M. Grandis* 
sime, not you ; that I cannot say. Adieu.” 

He was turning. 

“'Sieur Grandissime ” 


She seemed to tremble. 


** NO! 


445 


He stood still. 

“ ’Sieur Grandissime,” — her voice was very tender, - 

wad you’ horry ? ” 

There was a great silence. 

“ ’Sieur Grandissime, you know — teg a chair.” 

He hesitated a moment and then both sat down. The 
servant repassed the door ; yet when Aurora broke the 
silence, she spoke in English — having such hazardous 
things to say. It would conceal possible stammerings, 

“ ’Sieur Grandissime — you know dad riz’n I ” 

She slightly opened her fan, looking down upon it, 
and was still. 

** I have no right to ask the reason,” said M. Gran- 
dissime. “ It is yours — not mine.” 

Her head went lower. , 

“ Well, you know,” — she drooped it meditatively to 
one side, with her eyes on the floor, — “ ’tis bick-ause — 
’tis bick-ause I thing in a few days I’m goin’ to die.” 

M. Grandissime said never a word. He was not 
alarmed. 

She looked up suddenly and took a quick breath, as 
if to resume, but her eyes fell before his, and she said, 
in a tone of half-soliloquy : 

I ’ave so mudge troub’ wit dad hawt.” 

She lifted one little hand feebly to the cardiac region, 
and sighed softly, with a dying languor. 

M. Grandissime gave no response. A vehicle rumbled 
by in the street below, and passed away. At the bot- 
tom of the room, where a gilded Mars was driving into 
battle, a soft note told the half-hour. The lady spoke 
again. 

“Id mague ” — she sighed once more— “ so strange, 
- — sometime’ I thing I’m git’n’ crezzy.” 


446 


THE GRANDISSIMES. 


Still he to whom these fearful disclosures were being 
made remained as silent and motionless as an Indian 
captive, and, after another pause, with its painful ac- 
companiment of small sounds, the fair speaker resumed 
with more energy, as befitting the approach to an in- 
credible climax : 

‘‘ Some day’, ’Sieur Grandissime, — id mague me 
fo’gid my hage ! I thing I’m young ! ” 

She lifted her eyes with the evident determination to 
meet his own squarely, but it was too much ; they fell 
as before ; yet she went on speaking : 

“ An’ w’en someboddie git’n’ ti’ed livin’ wid ’imsev 
an’ big’n’ to fill ole, an’ wan’ someboddie to teg de care 
of ’im an’ wan’ me to gid marri’d wid ’im — I thing ’e’s 
in love to me.” Her fingers kept up a little shuffling 
with the fan. “ I thing I’m crezzy. I thing I muz be 
go’n’ to die torecklie.” She looked up to the ceiling 
with large eyes, and then again at the fan in her lap, 
which continued its spreading and shutting. “ An’ daz 
de riz’n, ’Sieur Grandissime.” She waited until it was 
certain he was about to answer, and then interrupted 
him nervously: ‘‘You know ’Sieur Grandissime, id 
woon be righd ! Id woon be de juztiz to you ! An’ 
you de bez man I evva know in my life, ’Sieur Grandis- 
sime ! ” Her hands shook. “A man w’at nevva wan’ 
to gid marri’d wid noboddie in ’is life, and now trine to 
gid marri’d juz only to rip-ose de soul of ’is oncl’ ” 

M. Grandissime uttered an exclamation of protest, 
and she ceased. 

“I asked you,” continued he, with low-toned em- 
phasis, “ for the single and only reason that I want you 
for my wife.” 

“ Yez,” she quickly replied ; “ daz all. Daz wad I 


“ A^O/” 


447 


thing. An’ I thing daz de rad weh to say, ’Sieur Gran- 
dissime. Bick ause, you know, you an’ me is too hole 
to talg aboud dad lovin\ you know. An’ you godd dad 
grade rizpeg fo’ me, an’ me I godd dad ’ighez rispeg fo’ 

you ; bud ” she clutched the fan and her face sank 

lower still — “ bud ” she swallowed — shook her head 

— ** bud ” She bit her lip ; she could not go on. 

** Aurora,” said her lover, bending forward and taking 
one of her hands. I do love you with all my soul.” 

She made a poor attempt to withdraw her hand, 
abandoned the effort, and looked up savagely through a 
pair of overflowing eyes, demanding : 

“ Mais, fo’ w’y you di’n’ wan’ to sesso ? ” 

M. Grandissime smiled argumentatively. 

** I have said so a hundred times, in every way but 
in words.” 

She lifted her head proudly, and bowed like a queen. 

Mais, you see, ’Sieur Grandissime, you bin meg 
one mizteg.” 

** Bud ’tis corrected in time,” exclaimed he, with sup- 
pressed but eager joyousness. 

“ ’Sieur Grandissime,” she said with a tremendous 
solemnity, I’m verrie sawrie, mais — you spogue too 
lade.” 

** No, no ! ” he cried, ** the correction comes in time. 
Say that, lady ; say that ! ” 

His ardent gaze beat hers once more down ; but she 
shook her head. He ignored the motion. 

And you will correct your answer ; ah ! say that, 
too ! ” he insisted, covering the captive hand with both 
his own, and leaning forward from his seat. 

** MaiSj ’Sieur Grandissime, you know, dad is so 
verrie unegspeg’.” 


448 


THE GRANDISS/MES. 


Oh ! unexpected ! ” 

** Mais, I was thing all dad time id was Clotilde wad 
yju- ” 

She turned her face away and buried her mouth in 
her handkerchief. 

“ Ah ! ” he cried, ** mock me no more, Aurore Nan- 
canou ! ” 

He rose erect and held the hand firmly which she 
strove to draw away : 

“ Say the word, sweet lady ; say the word ! ” 

She turned upon him suddenly, rose to her feet, was 
speechless an instant while her eyes flashed into his, and 
crying out : 

No ! ” burst into tears, laughed through them, anc 
let him clasp her to his bosom. 


THE END. 





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